Page 4 of Skeletons in the Closet

As we moved through the crowd, I reevaluated whether I was sober enough to drive. I hated leaving my car. I usually stuck to three drinks so I could drive home, but I’d gone over my limit that evening, and although I wasn’t overly drunk, the world was swaying too much to safely drive.

Unfortunately, when we got outside, three guys poured into the last available cab, and we were stuck ordering an Uber or waiting for more taxis to show up. Memphis took care of the details, waving me off when I offered.

The night air was cool after being covered in sweat from dancing. I shivered, hugging my arms around my middle. “Can I check my car and see if I have a sweater while we wait?”

Memphis finished on his phone and pocketed it. “Lead the way.”

We hooked arms and wandered through the parking lot to where I’d left the Jetta. Memphis must have been drunker than me since he kept swaying, tripping on his feet, and rocking us off course.

He laughed when I had to pull him in the right direction more than once. “Ya lush.”

He hummed, closing his eyes and letting me tug him along. “It was a good night.”

“For you.”

“Don’t be jealous.” Memphis rested his head on my shoulder. “Can I crash on your couch?”

“If you can keep your hands to yourself, you can crash in my bed.”

“Babe, I just had my cock sucked. I don’t need you.”

“Thank god for that.” We laughed again, swaying, stumbling, and bumbling along.

“How long for the Uber?”

Memphis checked his phone. “Six minutes.”

I fumbled my keys from my pocket but dropped them. Holding Memphis’s arm for support, I bent to pick them up. As I turned them over in my hand to hit the fob, a door slamming on a nearby vehicle caught my attention. I glanced up in time to see the shadowy form of an honest to god Bigfoot barreling toward us.

No, it was a man. A terrifyingly large man.

Memphis must have seen him too because he snagged my arm and tried to shove me behind him in a drunkenly protective manner that would likely have been laughable in the bright light of a sober day. Memphis was no bigger than me. The notion of him protecting me from an attack was hilarious. If anything, I had more spark and a feisty, scrappier edge.

But before I had time to process the right course of action, Bigfoot spoke—rather, he growled, “Give me your fucking keys.”

I blinked, the soupy processing center of my brain digesting the command. Familiarity tickled a memory, but it was too vague and far away to grasp.

Wait. Was this guy trying to steal my car? What the fuck? I pressed my keys to my chest to protect them from being stolen.

The pieces clicked when the man passed under a parking lot light and stopped a few feet away, hand extended, waiting for the keys he’d demanded.

The man was built like a tank that had been to war and returned to civilization with the scars to prove it. His shorn hair, menacing glare, and hulking frame were instantly recognizable.

The growl in his speech hit me in the balls, the same as it had done months ago. I knew Bigfoot. Not well, but well enough I relaxed, no longer threatened.

“You’re drunk off your ass,” he said when I didn’t respond, still waving a hand for the keys. “You aren’t fucking driving.”

Memphis’s fingers dug into my arm as he tried to pull me back a few steps, but I dug my heels in. The growling six-and-a-half feet of muscle demanding my keys was not a stranger. He was not as menacing as he thought. He was an overexcited bullmastiff pup who’d gotten off his leash, and his bark was worse than his bite.

“Hey, Guns. What are you doing here?” I smirked with as much sultry mischief as I could muster. The alcohol never failed to work to my advantage in these cases.

A low rumble emanated from Diem’s chest, and he shook his hand again. “Keys.”

“You know this guy?” Memphis whispered with drunken non-quietness, his lips brushing my earlobe.

I shrugged my friend off. “Yes. Relax.” To Diem, I said, “We have an Uber coming. I was looking for a sweater in the car because it’s chilly, but your concern is sweet. What are you doing here? I don’t remember seeing you inside.”

Diem shifted his weight, scanned the parking lot, and tucked his hands into his pockets. The fire burned out of his eyes, but his jaw ticked, and he radiated discomfort. The cool Maynight must not have penetrated his thick skin. Diem wore a plain black T-shirt, biceps straining the sleeves, and rugged jeans threatening the thigh seam. The tattoos I remembered were on full display, Chinese characters running the length of his forearm. Their details were hidden in the darkness of the parking lot, but I’d stared at them many times, wondering at their meaning.

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