Page 25 of Embody

Back in my chair, I rack my brain on how I’m gonna get home, when an eerie sense of scrutiny raises every hair on the back of my neck.

“You ‘bout ready to go?” A husky, almost angry sounding voice behind me causes me to shriek and jolt in my seat. Then just as suddenly, I take a calming breath and sigh in relief. May have taken me by surprise for a second—but I know that voice.

I peek over my shoulder and sure enough, there he stands, leaned casually up against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Hey Jefferson, what are you doing here? You wanna sit down?” I motion to the empty stool.

“Why do you call me Jefferson?” he asks, declining my invite to sit.

“Because it’s your name?”

“Everyone calls me JT and you know it,” he steps toward me. “I’m not saying I don’t like it, but why do you do it? The real reason.”

I exhale weightily and decide to go with the truth. Might as well. This has already been the craziest night I’ve ever experienced. “Because no one else does.”

“And you wanted to be different with me, just like that?” He advances a couple more steps, now standing right in front of me, blocking my view of the stage.

“I guess so, I’m not sure.”

“Yes you are,” the corner of his mouth slowly curls up and a certain delight shines in his eyes.

“Awful weird conversation we’re having here. Are you drunk too?” I don’t smell alcohol on him, only male potency and crisp cologne.

“Awful weird night. I’m told you’re a shy recluse, not a party girl, yet I find you in a bar, letting band boy croon to you while he eye fucks ya. I haven’t drunk at all, dead sober and confused as hell why you’re here. And who’s that drunk douchebag you’re here with?”

“Just a guy that’s gonna be in my Sociology class. I’m actually here doing required observation for an upcoming assignment. And I have no idea what happened with Zeke. Nothing like that ever happens to me.”

“Zeke? You know is name?” He sneers with severe mockery and condescension.

“Well yeah, now. His bandmate said it.” I dip my head, embarrassed of the impression he must have of me—some star-struck groupie, which I’m anything but.

He slides his finger under my chin and lifts my face to look at him. His dark brown eyes edged with something I can’t quite name, yet makes me feel ashamed on collision. “What did he say to you?”

And as usual, what seems to be all I can ever say to him, the truth pops out. “He said I was so damn sweet and asked me to wait for him after the show.”

“No fucking way in hell is that happening,” he snaps with palpable ferocity. “Howwereyou planning on getting home?”

“I was supposed to ride with Marshall. The…um…drunk douchebag.”

“That’s not fucking happening either. He’s sloshed and not worth a shit at looking out for you. I’ll give you a ride home, let’s go.” He reaches for my hand, but I balk.

“Hold up just a damn minute, bossy. Who says I’m ready to leave? And you can’t tell me I’m not allowed to wait around for Zeke. I said I would.” I tilt my chin up and cross my arms in blatant defiance.

He bends, his lips grazing my ear. “Guess who owns fifty-one percent of this bar, Bellamy?”

When I remain silent, except for my audible, heavy breathing that can only be blamed on his very close proximity, he answers himself with a trace of subdued amusement. “My Uncle Sawyer. You’re gonna leave with me so I know you got home safe or one call and I’ll have this whole motherfucker closed in thirty minutes. What’s it gonna be?”

“Fine,” I surrender with a cool bitterness, ready to go home but not a fan of being told what to do, and head for the door. “But only because my DD is soused.”

I stop at the door and turn, waiting for him to raise his eyes from my ass to my face. When he does, I put some extra sass in my grin. “By the way, anyone who owns half this bar and has the good sense God gave a goose would know…roosters don’t have nests!”

Take that Bossy Pants.

 

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