Page 23 of Troublemaker
Mine.
There was the slam of glass on solid wood, the tinkling sound of something breaking, and then sharp, burning pain shot through my hand. Curious as to why, I glanced down, only to see crushed shards everywhere. In my anger, I’d slammed mywhiskey down hard on the table while squeezing the top, and the force must have cracked the lip, cutting my hand in the process.
This motherfucking bar. Not only did they make it easy for douchebags to prey on women, they also didn’t even make their fucking drinkware strong enough to withstand some physical pressure.
As I rose to go give the fucking bartender a piece of my mind—and drag Lucy the fuck out of here in the process, and maybe use a broken shard to stab the man she was with—she slid off the barstool.
And then put her goddamn hand in his.
And led him out the bar.
Oh, absolutely the fuck not.
I must have thrown my drink, because I heard a shout and then more glass shattering. Rising from the booth, blood trickling down my hand, I approached the bartender. He was still watching me, shaking his head.
“I should throw you out of the bar,” he told me.
“Do you know what that fucker said to her before they left?” I demanded, ignoring his half-assed threat.
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Why? Angry to see your daughter out and about?”
“She’s not my fucking daughter,” I told him.
He nodded. “I figured. Fathers usually don’t react that way.” Pointing at my hand, he asked, “Need me to clean that up for you?”
I shook my head. “I keep a first aid kit in my car.”
It had come in handy various times in my life, including when Lucy had scraped up her knee as a kid, but I’d never expected to have to use it in a situation like this.
“Do you know what he said to her?” I asked again.
“I’m sure you can guess, man,” the bartender said. “Look?—”
I didn’t wait to hear the rest as I headed out of the bar and the hotel to the parking lot. I assumed the combination of cool, fresh air and dark night would have calmed me down some.
It did the opposite. As I walked through the lobby, I noted which floor the elevator had stopped on: nine. That must be where Lucy was.
Every step I took toward my car was a step further away from Lucy. Every breath I took was an opportunity for him to touch her. I unlocked my car, ripping open the glove compartment so hard, the handle came off. Tossing it onto the seat, I pulled out my first aid kit before striding back into the hotel toward a bathroom.
“Sir,” someone called, likely alarmed that I was leaving a trail of blood in my wake. I ignored them, storming toward the men’s bathroom and heading inside, where I quickly cleaned and bandaged the cut, tossed the bloody paper towel I’d used to clean myself up in the trash and walked to the elevator, jamming my finger impatiently on the up button. Every second that ticked by was another second that man could be touching what was mine, tasting what was mine, fucking what was mine?—
If I’d had another glass, I’d have smashed that one, too.
Finally, the elevator arrived, and I stepped inside. An older couple joined me, watching me warily as if I was someone dangerous. They were right. I was someone dangerous, just not to them.
But that finance douchebag better hope he hadn’t touched her, and he better also hope he could run fucking fast.
Because if he had touched her and he couldn’t run at the speed of light?
I was going to motherfucking kill him.
11
LUCY
Iregretted my decision the second Sam followed me into his room and closed the door. The room was large, beautiful, elaborate in a Louis XV sort of way, and I hated everything about it. It reminded me of my parents’ house. When I was young, I hadn’t been allowed to sit on any of the surfaces except for a “child’s couch,” in case I got sweaty or sticky stains on any of the expensive furniture. That thought swept away any anticipation I had over finally having sex.
Sam watched me. “You know, Lacy, you don’t have to do this.”
