Page 16 of Hard to Fake

On my way, I spot a woman bent over double by the door. I pull up sharply.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.” She’s breathing normally, but her eyes are hazy.

I get her into the bathroom and hold her hair while she throws up twice.

“I swear I’m not that drunk, it’s just been a weird day,” she groans as she straightens.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m Brooke.”

“Lori.” She smiles weakly as we head out of the bathroom. “I’m here with my boyfriend, but we had a fight.” She nods toward a guy at one of the booths with blond hair and a flipped collar. He’s gripping an empty highball glass and surrounded by a few others, including some women he’s grinning at. “He’s not supposed to be drinking—he promised me he wouldn’t, because it’s not good when he does—but he’s already started. The thing is, he makes me feel like I’m the crazy one, and…” Her cheeks flush. “Sorry, I don’t need to dump this on you.”

“It’s okay. Don’t let him gaslight you.”

“Speaking from experience, huh?” She nods, not waiting for me to respond. “I think I’m going to go home.”

I walk outside with her and call an Uber on my account. She thanks me again as I put her inside the car.

“What did you do with my girlfriend?” a voice demands from behind me.

When I turn, I find myself toe to toe with the guy she pointed out earlier. “I helped her get home,” I say evenly.

“I say when it’s time to leave.” His eyes narrow, an ugly sneer on his face.

“Actually, she’s a grown woman who gets to decide things for herself, like when to leave and with whom.”

He mutters something under his breath that has my brows lifting.

It’s not until he shoves my shoulder, hard enough that I trip into the brick wall behind me, that I realize he could be more trouble than I thought.

A massive body shifts between us.

“You like your hands?” Miles’s voice is friendly.

“What?”

I can’t see Boyfriend-of-the-Year’s expression, but he sounds confused, irritated, and definitely more alert than he was a moment ago.

“I asked if you like your hands. Because if you want to keep them, you won’t touch her again.”

The other guy was clearly thinking of picking a fight, but when he sizes up exactly whom he’s dealing with, he changes his mind.

“Good plan,” I can’t resist calling around Miles’s shoulder as the other man slinks away.

My pulse pounds in my veins as I realize how close I came to getting injured. A twinge in my knuckles makes me look down to see a red scratch.

“You’re hurt,” Miles says as he turns, his bomber jacket brushing my arm.

“It’s only a scrape. I’ll rinse it off when I get home.” I wave him off. “You get worse every day on the court.”

“We’re not talking about me.”

He reaches into the pocket of his jeans for his wallet.

“You’re not fixing my scratch with a condom,” I protest, but he produces a Band-Aid.

Miles unwraps the strip and puts it carefully over the scrape, then swipes a thumb along my wrist. Warmth rushes along my skin.

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