Page 56 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
The scene in front of me feels like a bad dream. Hazy around the edges, the warmth in my belly turning sour.
“You ready to go, Ems?” Ben asks me, and when I finally look up at his gorgeous green eyes, filled with concern but not a single trace of judgment, shame fills me.
I nod pathetically.
“That’s not even her name, asshole.” Tad smirks, like this is some sort of win for him.
“Come on,” Ben says gently, ignoring Tad and taking my elbow. When I stand from the barstool, the floor is a Tilt-A-Whirl beneath my feet, but Ben’s solid grip steadies me.
Once I have my bearings, he pulls my coat off the chairback and holds it open for me to slide my arms into.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tad, Todd, whoever, barks. “You let me buy you drinks all night and now you’re leavingwith him?”
“Piece of advice.” Ben wraps his arm around my shoulder, and I lean into his side for balance. “Buying drinks for a woman doesn’t entitle you to her body. Maybe learn that before you inflict yourself on the public again.”
Tad’s face goes fire-engine red, and he grabs hold of Ben’s sweater, his other fist clenched at his side. “You arrogant son of a bitch.”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I am worried.
Very, very worried!
Ben takes a deep, measured breath, the kind that suggests it’s taking everything in him to keep his cool. As he does, he slides his arm away from my shoulder, gripping my forearm instead and guiding me to stand behind him. Then he says to Tad, “Take your hand off me. Now.”
Others seated nearby watch and whisper about what’s going down. Across the room, the bartender and another restaurant employee, both wearing fraught expressions, head in our direction. There’s practically zero crime in Iceland but leave it to Americans to bring violence into the country.
Still seething, Tad glances around the bar and then releases Ben’s sweater from his clenched fist. “Whatever. I’m not ruining my trip over some dumb slut.”
There isn’t time to react to how fast Ben lunges at him,barstools falling to the side with a thundering clatter as he pins Tad against the nearest wall and presses his forearm into the guy’s windpipe.
“BEN, NO!” I shout, stumbling forward and pulling at the back of his coat. “What he said doesn’t matter. Let’s just go!Please,let’s just go!”
Without another word, Ben releases him and slings his arm over my shoulder. Then he leads me out of the restaurant, not slowing until we’ve made our way down the rainbow-painted pavement and stand in front of the Blue Church. Then he drops his arm from around me, folding at the waist with his hands on his knees. He pulls air into his lungs and forces it out in restrained measures, as if he’s trying to regain control of himself.
“I’m so sorry,” I plead with him. “I’m so, so,sosorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“Yes, I absolutely do. That was all my fault.” The cold night air does nothing to lessen the heat burning my cheeks. “I brought that on myself. That was so fucking stupid of me.”
Standing upright, Ben moves closer and takes my face between his hands. “That wasn’t your fault. That washisfault. You’re allowed to interact with someone without it leading to anything further.”
Despite his words, Ben’s eyes are filled with a potent combination of hurt and fury, and it might as well be a knife taken to the center of my chest. “But look what I did. Look what I did to you. You’re so angry.”
“I’m not angry atyou, Ems.” He strokes my cheek, a gentle, heartbreaking juxtaposition to the tension holding the rest of his body captive. “That guy was just…andIjust…I don’t likelosing control of my emotions.” His hands fall away as his eyes scan me over. “But that doesn’t matter right now. Areyouokay?”
I’m not, but I nod anyway.
We stand there silently watching each other in the cast-off glow of a streetlight, me having no earthly idea what to say or do. Before I can come up with anything, Ben pulls me into him, wrapping me up in his arms. I cling to the sides of his sweater and let the closeness of him soothe me as I struggle to keep my emotions from surfacing. I don’t even know what I’m feeling really. I just know it hurts. I guess that’s what four vodka sodas will do to a person.
After a long moment, Ben slides his arm back around my shoulder and guides me on the short walk back to our accommodations for the night—a historic schoolhouse renovated into two apartment-style rentals. Ben’s apartment is on the bottom level, mine on top, but he helps me unlock my door and make my way up the steep, creaky old staircase.
After leading me straight to the bedroom, Ben goes to retrieve a glass of water and some ibuprofen while I slip into the bathroom and get ready for bed. Splashing cold water on my face, I catch my piteous reflection in the mirror. Eyes red-rimmed. Cheeks and nose pink with an alcohol-induced flush. Dark brown hair a frizzy mess. I blink away, unable to face myself.
Back in the bedroom, Ben’s waiting with a full glass of water and some pills, and I take them with a muttered, “Thanks.”
I manage to get my coat off all on my own, then my shoes, before crawling into bed with the rest of my clothing still on. Laying my head on the soft pillow, I close my eyes, only to be hit with a wave of vertigo so nauseating that I force them open again.
