Page 24 of Frog Hog

“Fucking liars. Goddamn men. I’m going to be a lesbian!”

“Baz asked where we were in casual conversation and I told him and he said he’s coming with Hutch. It was all a ploy because you’ve been avoiding him. It’s your fault. You should have called him! Now you’ll have to do this face to face.” How dare she blame me for this?

Scowling at my best friend, I do one of those long blinks. The kind that happens when you’re really stupid, ugly drunk. “Then I’m staying in here with,” I say, leaning over to check the nametag of the perfume lady. “Mary. I’ll spend the evening learning about the nuances of scents,” I slur.

“Oh, God. You’re so drunk,” Greer says. Her bodyguard comes into the restroom.

“Sorry, Ma’am. You were taking too long. I’ll wait here while you finish up,” Mr. Bodyguard says, head nodding in Greer’s direction, hands folded in front of his junk. Men in bathrooms. The other thing you get used to when you’re friends with Greer.

An amazing idea sparks. “Yes. Fine, sir. I’m going to need your services. You’ll need to guard that door from a dirty, asshole, married man who will try to wreck what’s left of my heart. Is that in your job description?” I ask, wobbling to stand in front of him.

The scary poop chick exits the stall and starts cussing up a storm about the man in the women’s restroom. “Oh, shut up! It’s a restroom not a gynecologist’s office. He didn’t see anything. Even if he did, there’s not much to see.” I look her up and down with a scowl on my face.

“She’s an angry drunk. My apologies,” Greer says, setting one of her cold hands on my forearm in warning. “It’s his job to be in here with me,” Greer hisses under her breath.

“You act like you’re some kind of super star or something. Both of you are rude bitches,” she says, as she exits, shouldering the bodyguard on her way.

Greer coughs to cover a laugh. “You’re leaving this bathroom. You will not order my employee to do anything for you except maybe drive you home, but they’re here,” Greer says, shoving her phone in my face with a text from Baz.

It simply reads,“We’re here and he’s going to find her.”

My heart trips, stutters, my stomach sinks to the floor. “Mary, I’m going to need some of your finest perfume.” She shows me a tray with the choices and I spritz every single one all over me, twirling around in a circle so I’m coated thoroughly and reek of a whore-skunk hybrid.

Greer shoves a bill into Mary’s hand and apologizes on my behalf. “Perfumes aren’t going to keep him away, Valen,” Greer bites.

I shrug. “I need something in my corner. You’re not,” I say, swallowing hard, hot tears stinging the corner of my eyes. This feels like an ambush I’m not prepared for.

She grabs me by the shoulders. “Valen. I’m in your corner. Always. Don’t say stuff like that. I’m being the voice of reason. You’re miserable for a reason.”

She guides me out of the bathroom into the dark red hallway. It reminds me of blood. “I’m miserable because I love him, okay? I’m madly in love with the stupid man!” My voice breaks, and my heart cracks down the center as I admit, out loud, for the very first time why I’m so upset.

I read it on her face, even in my drunk stupor. “They’re standing behind me aren’t they?”

Greer nods, closing her eyes slowly. “Talking is all that needs to happen. Simple,” Greer says so only I can hear.

Not so simple when you’re practically black out drunk. I turn and glimpse the wrath of beautiful perfection. Shaking his head, his face a mask of fury, he holds his hands out to the sides in a wide stance. “One stupid man here at your disposal,” Hutch says, voice booming. Greer’s bodyguard looks wary, but she grabs his coat sleeve and leads him away with Baz.

I cover my face with both hands. “Impossible,” I mutter. Closing my eyes is a horrible idea because dizziness wallops me in a swift, fuck-you-punch.

“Nothing is impossible,” he slings back. It’s loud. “Talk to me for fuck’s sake. Stop avoiding me. We need to talk about everything.” We’re a breath away from pulling a full-on domestic scene.

Nodding at the door, I head back to the dance floor and straight on to the exit. Scared shit girl is dancing her heart out on top of a private table—singing into her fake, fist microphone at the top of her lungs. It’s to one of Greer’s popular songs blasting through the speakers. That forces a grin to my face.

The cool air hits me in a rush. I’m hot everywhere because out of all of the emotions clamoring for attention, rage is what comes out on top. When Greer’s voice becomes background noise instead of a skull blaring volume, I spin on him. “You’re a liar and I can’t be with a liar, Hutch. I can’t believe you did this to me. You waited so patiently for me to fall in love with you. You saw the moment it happened, and yet you still continued this charade.” I motion between us with one hand. I wobble on my heels, and he steadies me with a hand on my elbow. He lets go as soon as I regain my balance.

He opens his mouth to speak, his eyes pleading, but I go on. I step on him, forcing his back against the brick wall. “I saw you with your family,” I swallow down the memory. It goes down like razor blades—cutting my insides so precisely I can’t pinpoint the exact point of pain. It’s everywhere. “Your daughter. Your wife. Your family.”

Hutch’s face morphs into shock—his mouth opening, and his eyes widening. I grin. “I caught you, you liar. What were you doing there? You didn’t’ even care to explain yourself to me. You disappeared.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s not what you think.” I step closer, but he can’t back away from me. I’m distantly aware we’re in public and the people waiting to get into the club are ambling around us, but it doesn’t quell my anger. He’s getting all of it on full blast. He’s this huge, burly, beautiful man and I’m a short, pint-sized vessel of rage. It must look insane to a passerby.

“What I think is that I declared an Honest War and you danced around the truth. You had ample time to spill the truth and let me make my own decisions about what I wanted.”

Grinding his teeth together in frustration, he turns his head to the side and watches people pass by. “It’s not what you think,” he says again, the timbre of his voice low and scary.

“Married men shouldn’t be at clubs. Married men shouldn’t melt panties off other women. Attached men should be home fucking their wives,” I yell. A woman walks by and gives a shout and a fist pump in agreement.

He sneers at her, then focuses his disdain at me. “You want to do this right here? In front of strangers?”

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