Page 31 of Yours to Catch

But he doesn’t remove his hostility from Brent. There’s a fire in his glare that only needs a tiny spark to set the entire building ablaze. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Miller Lite.” Brent places the order without taking his eyes off me, completely unaware of the danger facing him.

“Tall or short?” There’s an unmistakable growl in the formerly friendly bartender’s tone.

“Tall. I have a feeling I’m not going anywhere for a while.” He winks at me.

A peek at Garrett reveals his jaw clenching into stone. If he grinds much harder, his molars will crumble into dust. He blindly whips a glass fresh from the washer and fills it with beer from the tap. Then he slams the Miller Lite on the counter. Golden brew sloshes over onto the wood surface from the agitated motion. Brent doesn’t notice.

“Anything else?”

“Nah, man. We’re good.” Then he proceeds to shoo Garrett away with a flick of his wrist.

My jaw drops at the dismissive action. Even if I’d been hanging on this dude’s every word, that disrespectful jab would’ve slaughtered my piqued intrigue. As it sits, I’m prepared to tell him off in Garrett’s defense.

But, as it turns out, my noble sheroism isn’t necessary. Water shoots out from seemingly nowhere to soak Brent’s lap.

He leaps off his stool with a stream of curses flying from his foul mouth. “What the fuck, man?”

Garrett has the audacity to appear very satisfied, his familiar smirk returning in stunning clarity. “Whoops. The gun got away from me. Finger slipped on the trigger. Faulty pipes. You know how it is. Right,man?”

I barely stifle a laugh as he swings the handheld soda dispenser by the hose like a floppy dick. “Simple mistake.”

Brent swipes at his drenched jeans. “Complete bullshit. I want to speak to your manager.”

“You’re looking at him,” Garrett drawls. “Unless you’d rather deal with him.”

He points at Ridge slinging drinks a few paces away. His fellow owner turns on cue to scowl at Brent. Menace oozes from his features. The former hockey player is terrifying on a good day. This scare tactic is something else entirely. It’s enough to make my spine straighten.

The warning gives Brent reason to pause his erratic—and useless—attempts at drying his drenched pants. “What am I supposed to do about this mess?”

“There are paper towels in the can.” Garrett hitches a thumb behind him.

“Dammit,” he spits. “I was about to smash this pussy. Now I gotta stick my junk in the spin cycle.”

“Gross.” My gasp at the vulgar description gains Brent’s glare. The wince tightening my expression is apparently a next-level offense.

“Don’t give me that wounded look. As if I wanted anything more from you other than a juicy fuck.”

The slap of his comment strikes directly at my pride that’s only sensitive to a select few topics. I suck in a sharp breath that sputters, much to my embarrassment. The past I’ve tried to leave behind races onto the scene with an onset that’s so sudden it’s painful. I can’t mask the hurt. My smile slips into a rejected flat line. Heat stings my vision until the bar is a blur.

“Get. Out.” Barely restrained fury vibrates in Garrett’s bellowed command.

Brent reels back as if he’s actually bothered. “Excuse me?”

Drake and Ridge materialize to flank Garrett for the parting blow. “We don’t want your business. You’re not welcome here. Show yourself out.”

“Whatever. Fuck this.” Brent slinks off like the soggy crotch he is.

Even with the douche canoe gone, my mood plummets. I curl inward against the pressure caving in. The excess weight on my figure becomes encased in iron. I’m a heavy lump wasting too much space. Someone skinnier and looser should take my spot. The ugly insults form a relentless attack until I crumple under the force. It’s more than I can handle.

I don’t need a man to validate how I feel about my body. But it really fucking sucks when someone spews hateful words meant to attack my character.

Garrett vaults himself over the counter to land in front of me. His palms rest on my shoulders, rubbing soothing circles into the tension there. Then he goes and hauls me in for a hug that’s nothing short of electric. His touch sends my stomach into a somersault routine fit for an Olympic gymnast. Of course, the guy who’s made it perfectly clear he’s not relationship material is the only one I respond to.

“Don’t let that asshole get to you,” he murmurs into my hair. With this casual embrace, he’s shoving my insecurities back into the dark corners where they belong.

My nod is jerky against his chest. “I’m trying not to. It’s just… hard to hear.”

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