Page 44 of Set on You

“Just feeling a little spinny. I’m good. I think I’m gonna call an Uber and head home early.”

“Stay there, okay? I’ll come wait with you. I’m about two blocks away at the pub.”

I arch my brow. “You seem to be an expert on the location of the strip club. Are you a frequent customer? A VIP?”

He scoffs. “Ha ha, very funny. You told me you were at Diamonds earlier. I’ve been there once for my buddy’s bachelor party. Thanks, though.”

“Mm-hmm...” My voice trails off as I peer around, the distant wail of a siren growing louder. There’s a seedy-looking dude in zebra-print pants and a thick gold chain loitering in front of the dingy alleyway to my left, casting his shifty eyes every which way.

“Stay where you are. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Scott orders before the call goes dead.

•••

“MISS, SPARE SOMEchange?” a raspy voice sounds.

My eyes snap open. Did I just fall asleep? And for how long?

Bleary-eyed, I turn to spot a rail-thin homeless man wearing two jackets approaching on my right. He looks terribly hungry and in need of a warm meal. “I’ll check.” I scramble to search the forgotten depths of my purse. God knows what lurks down there. I have no idea if I even have any change. Who carries cash with them anymore?

Fingers hopelessly tangled in my headphone cords, I uncover one lone, half-squished Skittle and a two-year-old receipt from Trader Joe’s. Just as I manage to locate a rogue dollar, a shadow towers over us.

It’s a monstrously tall, muscular figure with ashy hair winging out of a black ball cap. This guy fills out a Henley like a sexy, rugged, recluse farmer who just so happens to have bulging biceps from slinging a bale of hay or two. Sleeves rolled up to accentuatehis forearms, he spends his days taming wild horses and aimlessly riding his tractor over terrain of varying degrees of difficulty. He stubbornly refuses to sell the land that’s belonged to his family for millennia to evil corporate developers from the big bad city. My focus sharpens slightly as the streetlight catches his green eyes.

I wheeze. It’s Scott. Suddenly, I wish I’d worn something lower cut than my turtleneck bodysuit. At least I’m wearing semi-flattering jeans and heels.

Scott hands him a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “Here, man.”

The man bows his head, gratefully reaching for the bill. “Thank you. God bless.”

“Have a good night!” I call after him, now practically horizontal on the sidewalk. It isn’t just the alcohol that’s knocked the wind out of me. It’s Scott’s decency. His kindness. Most people just dart right past homeless people without a second glance. Had I been sober and in a rush, I probably would have too.

Scott kneels down, studying my face while still keeping a watchful side-eye on the man in the zebra-print pants. “You shouldn’t be out here alone like this.”

“Why not? I’m fineeee. I was gonna call an Uber or walk home. I only live a few blocks away,” I slur, unable to refrain from staring at him like he’s a full bag of Sweet Chili Heat Doritos.

“Where’s your mom? Or Tara?”

“They’re still inside. Probably getting lap dances. One guy looks like Tom Brady. We’re obsessedddd with the lad.” For reasons unknown, I’ve randomly decided it’s as good a time as any to bust out a British accent.

“Are you pretending to be British?” His voice shakes with suppressed laughter.

“A Geordie. You know, from the north. My new client is from there,” I dutifully explain. “She was talking about her weight in stone the other day. I had to use a stone-to-pound converter. And then she talked about how she used to hook up with a lot of guys in university. She called itpulling.”

Scott’s face contorts in confusion. “Pulling?”

“Yeah, like,I used to pull all the lads.” I giggle, clapping my hand over my mouth, fully aware I’ve royally butchered her amazing accent.

“Wow. Please say that again. It’s such a turn-on,” he teases.

“I’m feeling like a real radgie,” I mimic her, containing my laughter.

He half-smiles. “Alright, Crystal from Northern England. I think it’s time for me to take you home.”

“Is that a promise?” I ask, brutally failing to make my voice low and sexy. It sounds like I have laryngitis and possibly swallowed a couple hairballs. Maybe I am more than tipsy.

“You know what I mean.” He rolls his eyes and grabs my hands. His forearms flex as he pulls me up. “Can you walk or do you want me to get you an Uber?”

“Pffttt.Of course I can walk.” It’s a half-truth. I can walk. Just not in a completely straight line. But who needs to walk in a straight line?

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