Page 208 of The Night Shift
She has one hand in his and the other curled in the sleeve of his jacket. She’s laughing and it would be convincing if you didn’t know her.
I still don’t know how the hell this slimy bastard managed to not only get a photo of Dog bleeding out in my arms but also send it to every single guest on the list. Only April and Holly haveaccess to the guest list. I do too, but that’s only because I have access to the contents of Holly’s phone.
I let my eyes settle back on her. The sight calms me down.
Her hair’s a little messy, her dress slightly wrinkled. Her cheeks are flushed from champagne and residual panic. And yet, she’s luminous. Illuminating everything around her like sunlight on water.
She stumbles slightly, caught by her father’s hand. She’s had enough champagne to sedate the edge of her anxiety, but not enough to quiet it completely. I can see it in her eyes. The way they flit around the room like she’s waiting for something else to go wrong.
I want to go to her.
I want to walk over there, be a little brave, and ask her for a hug. Just a little reprieve. I want to feel her fold into me, let her head fall against my chest. Let my hands settle on her waist. I want to tell her I’m sorry. I want her to stroke my hair and tell me that it’s going to be okay.
I take a sip of my drink. The ice bumps against my lip.
“Hi,” says a voice from my left.
I turn and spot a head of red curls. There’s mascara smudged underneath April’s eyes suggesting she tried to clean herself up before walking out here.
I give her a tight smile, lifting my glass slightly as she steps beside me. We both watch the dance floor.
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
“He’s okay,” she says. “I mean as okay as someone can be right now.”
I nod slowly, and take another sip of my drink. The ice is starting to melt.
The DJ changes tracks. Something more upbeat now. Cheerier. A bold misreading of the room. Holly instantly tries to step away from the dance floor, but her father catches herwrist and spins her back into the center. He’s doing a terrible interpretation of the Macarena. Holly groans, but there’s a smile tugging at the edge of her mouth as he forces her to join in.
“Does she know?”
I glance at April. “I’m sorry?”
“Holly. Does she know how you feel about her?”
I don’t let my surprise show. “It’s not what you think.”
April scoffs. “Are you really going to lie to me twice in one night?”
I keep watching the dance floor. I take another sip of my drink. There’s a long pause before I speak again. “She’s perceptive. If she doesn’t know by now, it’s because she doesn’t want to.”
“Or because you haven’t told her.”
I let the silence answer for me. Because she’s right. I haven’t told her.
I tried to. Earlier today. The words were there — I think they always have been — straining against my throat.
But something stopped me.
Self-preservation. Fear.
Holly’s like a feral cat. You get too close or move too fast. Say the wrong thing? She’ll bolt. Lost forever.
I’m not sure I’d survive that.
Once I name this thing between us, there’ll be no going back to pretending this is casual, that I don’t think about her every time I’m alone. That I don’t crave her approval like it’s oxygen. That I can handle the fallout if she doesn’t feel the same way.
We might have started out a certain way, but it’s not just want anymore. It’s not just obsession or the raw, animal need to have her beneath me, biting down on my shoulder. It’s worse than that. Deeper. She isn’t someone I watch from time to time while maintaining immaculate boundaries anymore.
