Page 35 of Don't Let Me Fall (Don't Let Me 1)

His nostrils flare, the vein in his forehead throbbing as he glares down at me. Someone flanks my right side.

“Hey, Shorty,” Theo says. “Logan and I are heading home. Let me give you a ride, yeah?”

Shorty’s attention shifts from me, to his ex, to Theo, then to Logan, who’s closing out our tabs at the counter as he weighs his options. When he realizes he has none, he points one of his sausage fingers at the waitress and growls, “We’ll talk later.”

“It won’t be necessary,” she spits back at Shorty, her features so sharp they could cut glass.

Gotta hand it to her. She’s ballsy.

But he ignores her and turns around, his steroid-induced muscles bulging as he walks outside.

There’s an awkward silence combating the music filtering through the speakers. It leaves the waitress and me in some weird standoff, so I take a step away from her, ready to get the hell out of here.

“Have a good night,” I mutter.

“Wait,” she calls before I can take another step.

I pause.

She peeks up at me and smiles tightly. “Sorry about that.”

“What? No thank you?” I joke.

She rolls her watery eyes and continues to hug the tray to her chest. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She’s cute in a sex kitten kind of way. With dark makeup and multiple piercings along the shell of her ear. A few tattoos are scattered on her exposed arms too. Big ones. The girl screams broken wet dream with a side of daddy issues louder than a siren.

And I don’t have time for that shit.

“Have a good night,” I offer, turning back to the bar lining the wall.

“Wait,” she repeats.

I face her again.

“Can I…I dunno? Maybe take you out or something? As friends,” she clarifies. “My treat.”

My grip is tight as I squeeze the back of my neck, unsure what the hell I’m supposed to say. I don’t want to go out with her. Which is messed up because I should want to go out with her. I should want to push her up against the nearest wall and fuck her. I should want to see how many tattoos are hiding beneath her black tank top and jean shorts. I should want a lot of things, but I don’t. Not with her. And it has nothing to do with being her ex’s roommate and everything to do with a certain blonde tutor who doesn’t belong to me.

“What’s your number?” she asks. “I’ll text you.”

With a sigh, I rattle off my phone number. She types it into her cell and slips it into the front pocket of her black apron wrapped around her waist.

“Thanks,” she repeats with a smile.

I nod and head back to the bar, surprised when I find Theo sitting on the same barstool.

“You know you just put a target on our backs,” he mutters as I collapse onto the one next to him.

“He was grabbing her.”

“You can’t be everyone’s hero,” he reminds me.

I gulp down the rest of my beer and set it on the counter, hating how I can feel his words as if they’re a solid blow to my stomach. He’s right. I know he is. But when you’re the villain in your own story, it’s hard to stop yourself from fighting for the opposite in someone else’s. Even if it’s only for a minute.

Swallowing back the bile in my throat, I drag my finger along the rim of the now-empty glass and mutter, “Yeah. I know.”

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