Page 21 of Exclusive

The last week has been the best of my life; so amazing, that making it through my shift tonight is getting harder by the minute. I finally have someone, something, something real, to go home to, and damn do I want to go home to her, right now.

We made it through her movie list — I even enjoyed a couple of them — and her commentary, follow-up discussion/Q & A, and reactions to certain scenes gave me a wealth of insight into her that she never would’ve given otherwise. Presley’s a closet romantic, a big ol’ pile of mushy, sentimental goo on the inside, and “deeper” than she realizes, seeing, understanding, and really feeling layers and meanings within a story that others never know are there. Seriously, no one else in the entire world has any idea — I’m still deciphering the lengthy explanation she gave me, twice — the hidden depth to Lady and The Tramp; I guarantee it.

I’m laughing to myself, staring at the crowd, yet seeing nothing, when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. If it’s her… well, my hope that we’re actually building something real is founded… because it tells me she’s missing me too. We’ve been together non-stop for the last week, and the first break she gets from me, she’s not relieved to have some space, not encouraging the distance, because “things were getting too serious.” If it’s her, that is.

I pull out my phone and grin so big my cheeks ache.

It’s her… and I’m making progress.

Hot Shot: DANCE LESSONS? Really?

What? Ohhh I got it now.

Me: I see someone jumped the gun on picking from the bored jar. Surely I haven’t bored you already.

My chest swells with thrilled, primal pride — not only is she not happy I’m gone, but she’s bored without me there. Yeah, I’m definitely making progress.

Hot Shot: Of course I’m bored, I’m sitting at home alone on a Friday night. And don’t change the subject. WHY did you put dance lessons in here? I’ll have you know, I’m a great dancer! I do NOT need lessons.

I’m laughing, typing a reply, when another one from her comes through.

Hot Shot: And I’ll prove it. TTYL. Phone now on silent.

Well, shit, that backfired quickly. I meant like a “couples’ ballroom” type thing, not to piss her off. Which is exactly what I text back… but it remains unread. And when I call, it goes straight to voicemail. Fuck, this feisty lil’ hothead is gonna be the damn death of me.

“Sutton, go help Roman by the pool tables, man. I can’t leave my post, got a handsy motherfucker,” Jason, another bouncer, barks in my earpiece.

“On it,” I fire back, heading that way, almost sorry for whoever needs handling, because my mood’s now dark, due entirely to my woman’s radio silence.

Alrighty… make that two jackasses who have my sympathy — the one I’m about to toss like a sack of shit, and the pale, bug-eyed shaking fucker, currently on his back, being held down against the pool table by dumbass one, and a cue stick across his throat. Roman’s trying to pull the dude back, but two other guys, I’m guessing the cue stick wielder’s buddies, are pulling on him. Not. Okay. With. Me. And the girl mixed in the mayhem, crying and screaming like a banshee? Really not okay.

First things first. “Ma’am, step back and let me handle this, don’t want you gettin’ hurt.” I gently move her, wincing at her screech. “And maybe quiet down, super unhelpful if I can’t hear myself think. Thanks.”

“Fuck you!” she spats, slapping me across the face.

I don’t get paid near enough.“Miss, I’m-”

And just when I thought the chick held the best in shrieking…

“Did I just see that shit? Bitch, you better pray I did not just see you slap my man!”

Oh, fuck.So not the way I’d have chosen for her to publicly claim me.

“Presley, what the hell are you doing here?” I turn to look at her, poised and ready to strike, actually shifting to guard the doomed slapper she’s got in her crosshairs.

“Not slapping other women’s men!” she hollers, lunging forward, reaching around me to get at the girl. “Move your ass, Sutton. She wants to hit people, let her show me!”

Jesus Christ, I’m protecting a loon who hit me, holding back the sexiest spitfire I’ve ever seen, and have yet to help Roman, or the guy who may be dead by now via cue-choke. Good times. But… I’m guessing Presley’s no longer bored.

“Baby, ‘preciate it, really do, but kinda got enough on my plate right now. Can’t worry about you too, so please, for me, go wait by the door with Kai.”

“Right behind ya,” Kai laughs. “Jason took the door; you think I’d let her prance on back here alone?”

Presley stops her scrambling long enough to shoot me a victorious smirk, then goes right back to business. “Come outta hidin’, badass! What, you not feelin’ brave anymore? Your hand get tired? Come on, show me what ya got, I dare ya!”

“I’m sorry,” the girl whines, or maybe cries, can’t be sure.

“Oh, you’re gonna be,” Presley spits, now ducking, trying to sneak under my arm.

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