Page 24 of Where We Bloom

Why the fuck didn’t they give her a ride home?

I’ll be giving the Blackwell boys a piece of my mind the next time I see them.

Billie walks up to the bar, just about four stools down from me. She hasn’t noticed me here, and I’d like to keep it that way.

I’ll make sure she gets home safely, then I’ll call it a night.

“One more,” she says to the bartender, then pays for her drink and takes a sip.

Of course, the arsehole on her right starts to talk to her. A new song comes on the jukebox, drowning out most of their conversation, but I see her wrinkle her nose at him in disgust, and it makes me grin.

I love that my girl doesn’t have a poker face.

She starts to cough, and then they talk for a few more minutes—which I tolerate …just—and then that prick has his arm around her, and he’s escorting her out of the bar.

What in the actual fuck?

I notice her phone is on the bar, so I grab it and slip it into my pocket as I hurry after them. When I get outside, he has her cornered against a truck, his hands and mouth on her, and Billie looks … limp.

He.

Fucking.

Drugged.

My.

Angel.

The fuck?

Seeing red, I yank the piece of shite back by the collar and punch him in the nose, breaking it and sending blood spraying all over the place. He moans and covers his face with his hands.

When I glance back, I see Billie sliding down the truck and sitting on the concrete, and I want to kill this arsehole.

“Hey!” he cries out, waving one hand out in front of him. “What the fuck, man!”

“Did you fucking drug her?”

“What we’re doing is none of you?—”

I pull him up by the shirt and punch him in the jaw three times, satisfied when I feel it give under my knuckles. It’s either broken or dislocated.

He moans again, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Answer me, you worthless piece of shite.”

“She wanted me,” he mutters as blood runs down from his nose and into his teeth. “Fucking slut wanted it.”

Grabbing his wrist, I twist it and feel the bones give, ignoring the keening wail this idiot lets out in response.

“I should kill you.” My voice is calmer than I feel as I let go and watch him drop onto the concrete, twisting in pain. “But my girl wouldn’t like that.”

With him writhing on the ground, I turn and pick up Billie and carry her to my SUV, get her settled in the passenger seat, and buckle her in. I kiss her forehead and brush the hair back from her face with shaky hands. She moans, and pure rage and helplessness consume me as her eyebrows pull together and she whimpers.

“Sick,” she says.

“Are you going to be sick, angel?”

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