Page 27 of Pucked Together

"No, Izzy. Keelan's my boy. And you're the most important person to him."

"Usually," she says, tripping to the sink to rinse her mouth out with water. Her look quickly turns somber.

I've never seen her like this. The Izzy I've come to know is confident. Sure of herself and the things she does. This version of her is...broken.

"Fine. I'll go with you," she decides after a moment.

We both look at Fergie, who's still blocking the door. A line of annoyed and possibly drunk women forms a ruckus just outside of it.

"Um...ok. Well, I ran into an old fling here." He hooks his thumb toward the door. "Kinda wanna see where things go. I'll see you tomorrow, though, ok?" He says to Izzy.

Izzy nods and walks back to me, leaning her head onto my chest and groaning.

She's beautiful. Even with her smudged lipstick and makeup running slightly under her siren eyes. Her lips are pink and full, doing things to my mind and body that I would never dare admit to her brother.

"You ready?"

She nods, and I pick her up and take her to my car, trying to be careful with her noodly body as I strap her into the seat. When we get to the house, I pick her up again, walking her down the hallway to our rooms. I kick open the door to hers, and of course, Wednesday acknowledges that we've arrived now that she catches a glimpse of her inebriated mama.

Izzy's fallen asleep in my arms, so I carefully lay her down. She nuzzles into the pillow while I make quick work of removing her heels. I set them down next to the nightstand and reach for the switch to turn off the lamp when she grabs me by the wrist. The sleep is gone from her eyes.

"Ryker?"

"Yeah?"

"That girl was wrong."

I think back on the night, trying to recall what the hell she's talking about.

"What girl?"

"You're not an ass."

I look back at her as she stretches in her bed, still dressed in those curve-hugging jeans. Her navel piercing is on full display. "You're just misunderstood."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because a guy who's an ass doesn't think about others."

The slurring is gone from her words, and for a moment, I wonder if she was even drunk to begin with.

She tugs for me to sit next to her on the bed, and she sits up a little straighter. "You're a good guy." She says firmly.

I look away from her intense gaze, "No, I'm not."

She reaches forward and takes my chin in her hand to face her. "Yes," she leans in close, our faces close enough for me to feel the warmth of her breath. "You are."

I should go. I should pull away. This is a bad idea. Every alarm in my body is going off, and at the same time, I don't want to move. I want to hear her say these words. I want her to look at me the way she is right this second.

She keeps moving closer, and I'm a statue waiting to get hit by the wave that is Isabella Landry. I close my eyes, and the next thing I feel is her hot vomit coating my shirt.

My eyes shoot open, and it's on her bed and the clothes she's wearing. She closes her eyes and waits to come to.

I hate this, and not just because she just threw up on everything within a five-foot radius. I hate that she'll probably wake up and forget we almost had a moment. I hate that it even came close to happening this way without considering her brother, who asked me to protect her—not take advantage of her. This is the opposite of protecting her.

"I am an ass," I whisper to myself.

But right now, that doesn't matter because Izzy needs someone to care for her.

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