Page 8 of Claiming What Is Mine

Chapter Five

Gabe

Oooowwww.It’s the first of three thoughts painfully bouncing around my brain. The second? Why in the hell isn’t this alcohol doing shit for the pain? And the third is a shush steadily trying to quietthe other two.

My everything aches, and I probably should be home but, in my infinite wisdom I thought I could walk it off. With the help of this eighty-proof walking stick. I don’t have a clue what I’m drinking. Judging by the lack of taste, it’s probably vodka, but that’s a best guess. I told the bartender I needed something strong and swiped the bottle from his hand while he poured my shot. It’s an open bar, what’s it to him?

I lift the container with my free hand—the one not busy holding a cold compress to my swollen cheek—to investigate. With my good eye.

Armadale? Never heard of it. Then again, that isn’t saying much. I wouldn’t label myself a vodka drinker. Not by a long shot. But I find the elegant lines of the bottle intriguing. This stuff is way too top shelf for Chet to have chosen. Let’s be honest, if he had been in charge of the bar arrangements, we’d have our choice of PBR or bourbon tonight. I take another pull from the bottle and try my best not to think. At all.

I didn’t do anything wrong and still got knocked on my ass. Well...I didn’t do anything wrong—this time. Off the top of my head, I could probably think of a hundred other situations I would have deserved as much from Chet. That is, I could probably think of those if my head wasn’t trying to split itself in half.Wow—excusing him for putting me out like that?Must be drunker than I thought. Which reminds me, I could use a drink. I take another peek at the bottle before I bring back it to my lips. That’s it. Daddy needs his medicine. Get in there and do your magic dance.

From the hubbub of music and laughter, it sounds like everyone has moved past the disruptions of the ceremony and gotten back to celebrating Chet and Christy. Thank the lord. Me, on the other hand? I’m fine right here, slumped in the corner, nursing my wounds. Between the throbbing in my cheek and my vision being knocked down by half, I'm content to sit here on the floor with my back against the wall. At least this way I can keep an eye out for any other stray punches that might have my name on them.

I’m trying my best to ignore the second heartbeat in my swollen face when I hear a half-slurred not-whisper. “Pssst. Gabe. Hey. Gabe.” I apply as much focus as I can muster, only to discover Hank at the other end of the words. He sits at a table a quarter of the way across the room, comfortably leaned back in his folding chair, his face warm and rosy.

“What do you want, Hank?” Irritation radiates from my words.

“Hey,” he slurs. Again, not whispering.

“Yeah?” He’s wearing on my nerves in a special way tonight.

“Did you hear me whistle after the ceremony? Man, it was louder than I thought it would be,” he says with a laugh. When I don’t laugh with him, his smile turns sour. “Are you feeling okay, bro?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Yeah. You took a whopper from Chet. Plus, I think you hit your head when you fell.”

That’s good information to have. Now. Hours later.“Hank, if you want to talk to me, be a peach and come over here instead of making me yell. Would ya?” I take his silence to mean he doesn’t care enough to be hassled with getting up and walking over. Judging by his speech, it’s probably for the best. He might not survive a trek this far on his own, not without making a scene, anyway. And let’s face it, the Wilde clan has sufficiently checked the Making a Scene box today. I look to my bottle, certain it was full when I sat down and confused how it got so damned close to the halfway mark.

“You’ve gotten soft in your old age.” The words are delicate and quiet, coming from a voice hidden in my blind spot.

“Huh?” I attempt to connect the familiar tone with a face. A shadow of a woman kissing my neck. A whisper of a small hand in mine. Comfort. Serenity. Happiness.

“I watched you take hits harder than that every Friday during football season in high school. Back then, you never would have stayed down. You used to pop up like the float on a fishing line and keep going.”

Whoever this is has quite a pair—woman or not—picking on a man when he’s literally, already down. “Yeah, well the full set of pads and helmet probably helped.” I turn my body to get a look at this asshole with my good eye. Well, with my better eye, anyway. The one I can still see out of is starting to show double.

“Same old Gabe. You always did have an excuse in your pocket, ready to go.”

I squint to bring the silhouettes of both figures into focus. “Oh my God. Mer? Is that you?” She looks beautiful, and I don’t use the word lightly. She has the kind of beauty that doesn’t diminish with age, but becomes amplified by it. Regal, or classic, or some word I’m too drunk to think of. I sit up, twisting to get a better look. She never was what I would describe as ordinary. Not this girl. Even now, almost two decades since I saw her last, she’s perfect. The laugh lines around her eyes may be new, but they add to the sparkle. The extra weight in her hips and thighs only adds to her beauty, like a woman in a painting. Standing in front of me, she is everything she was, and somehow, more.

“Who’d you think I was?” She pulls a chair from a nearby table and takes a seat next to me.

“Talking to me like that? If you were a man, I’d have said someone with poor judgment,” I joke. “Can I offer you a dd-drink?”

Was that a stutter? Nah. Couldn’t have been. I don’t feel drunk.

I hold the bottle out to her.

“Uh, I’m good, thanks. Sounds like you’ve had enough for the both of us.” She smiles.

Damnit. The one, true love of my life shows up out of nowhere and I’m too shit-faced to have a serious conversation with her? Pull yourself together, man. Quick, say something to keep her talking.“Did you get taller?”

Really? That’s the best you could manage?

“Ha. I wish. I think you’re just closer to the ground than normal. I’m the same fun-sized girl as always.”

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