Page 50 of Lucky Penny
He gets closer, so close I can smell his cologne, our faces inches from each other as the music grows louder. “Pen, you here with me?”
“I don’t know…I don’t know where I am these days,” I whisper back, too tipsy to filter my words.
Jesse’s jaw tightens, and before I know it, his fingers thread tightly through mine like they remember how.
Like they never forgot.
“You’re here, and you’re safe,” he says firmly, and for a moment, I believe it.
But then Fia returns, cheeks pink and smiles wide. “Well? Let’s play. You earned it.”
I let go of Jesse’s hand before she can see it. I need to breathe.
“I’ll grab our last round,” I say quickly.
“Nothing for me, I’m driving home,” Jesse adds.
I nod, turning toward the bar, choking back tears.
20
Jesse
NOW
“You got her?” Fia asks, yawning in the hallway with Tank on her heels. The overhead light casts a soft golden haze, catching in her tired eyes.
I shift Penny’s limp weight in my arms. Her head rests on my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I reply quietly. “She’s gonna feel this in the morning.”
Fia just shakes her head and disappears into her room without another word.
I nudge Penny’s half-open door with my shoulder and step into her room.
It’s spotless—too spotless. Nothing out of place. Like she could pack it all in five minutes and disappear without a trace.
She whimpers softly against my chest, the sound low and vulnerable. I lower her gently onto the bed, trying not to jar her. She smells like vanilla and lime, and I try not to notice how soft her hair is against my jaw. I flick on the lamp, the light washing the room in amber as I catch her reflection in the mirror above the dresser.
“Jesse?” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep, her head rolling to the side.
“I’m here.” I drop into a squat next to the bed, and her eyes adjust to look at me.
“I can’t sleep in my boots,” she whispers, almost pouty. She lifts a leg an inch off the bed and lets it drop. “Help.”
Of course, she can’t. She didn’t get the nicknameprincessfor nothing.
I sigh, not bothering to answer, and reach for her foot.
“You have to unzip them first,” she adds, watching me through heavy lashes, her brown eyes glassy but still sharp enough to sting.
She tries to sit up and fails, falling back with a laugh that rattles me, making me exhale deeply.
I told her not to take that fifth vodka soda. She didn’t listen. She never does.
She’s lucky I was there. Every eye in the Rebel Tavern was on her, and I fear she would’ve been eaten alive tonight.
The zipper starts at her thigh.
