Page 21 of Ace of Spades
He finally lets me go, and I spin on my heels to face him as soon as my feet hit the sand.
“Leave me alone!” I roar at him, my eyes blurry with unshed tears. It’s all too much. I can feel myself breaking as I storm off, feeling eyes on me as I stop at a random cooler, digging inside until I find what I’m looking for—an ice-cold bottle of tequila—and run out of the arena.
Chapter 8
WESTON
I had seen Hailey drink before. I had not, however, seen Hailey drunk. That is, until tonight.
I watch as she takes another swig of the quickly depleting bottle of tequila, swaying on her feet, her best friend nowhere to be found.
Where the fuck was Ava? Wasn’t it some sort of friend code that she should be out here taking care of her?
I lean up against the arena railing, Chance and Rafe talking around me, though I can’t find it in myself to focus on what they’re talking about—not when Hailey is across the arena looking like she’s one drink away from doing something stupid.
Why do I care? I shouldn’t care. But for some reason, a small part of me does.
“Take it off!” I hear one of the guys around her cheer, her hands reaching for the hem of her shirt as she laughs, and something in me snaps.
Nope, not happening.
One second, I was across the arena, and in the next, I had her thrown over my shoulder. She lets out a surprised yelp, and the couple of guys in the group she had been hanging out with actually dare to look disappointed that I had stopped them from getting a show.
“Get out of here,” I tell them, stalking off towards the arena gate.
“Oh my gosh, Weston!” Hailey laughs from where she hangs down my back. I catch a whiff of her scent, picking up on something like vanilla and sunlight, something warm and soft in a way that doesn’t match the pure fire in her amber eyes. It’s intoxicating in a way that I can’t describe.
“Yes, Sorrels?”
“Okay, so like don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but has anyone ever told you that you have a nice butt?”
I fight to hold in a chuckle, readjusting her as she bounces on my shoulder.
“You saying you like my butt, Sorrels?”
“I do, it’s a nice butt. Shame that it’s attached to such an annoying person.”
“So I’m annoying now, huh? How so?” I ask as I follow the gravel drive leading from the arena to the smaller guest house—which I assume is where she stays—and leave the party behind.
She huffs, as if exasperated by my question.
“Never mind, where are we going?”
“You are going to bed,” I tell her, walking through the front doors of the beautiful modern white ranch-style home. “Are you going to tell me where your room is?”
“Noooo, it’s my birthday party! I want to keep partying,” she pouts, and I can practically smell the tequila on her breath from here.
“Yes, and you’ve had plenty of fun—but now it’s time you go to bed,” I tell her, easily finding what I presume is her bedroom on the first floor, with her trophy case full of the buckles she’s won at rodeos over the years and framed photos of her and her horses.
“What are you, my dad?”
Gypsy runs up to greet us from where she was laying at the door of the bed, desperately trying to jump up to kiss her owner who was still upside down over my shoulder.
“Not,” I grumble, tossing her down onto her bed, a squeal coming from her lips as she bounces.
She seems to realize what she said, her eyes softening for a moment as they meet mine.
“I know you hate my dad,” she says, halfway slurring. “Wanna know a secret?”
