Gross and misogynistic? Yes. But it had stuck like glitter and had become a running joke during his games, brought up often by the sportscaster who’d coined the perversion of the nickname and had used it to remind people how clever he supposedly was. I couldn’t stand that guy.
Rex had always acted like it didn’t faze him, but obviously it did. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have just said, We didn't date, if we'd dated, you'd be married.
“Listen, I—uh—can I call you a cab?” I winced, wishing I could take back the thoughtless words as soon as they’d left my mouth.
Since I followed Rex’s career, I knew he’d had a bad experience with a cab driver in Seattle a few months ago. The guy had tried to kidnap him at gunpoint. It had been all over the news.
Rex shook his head as it fell to his hands, then he kept on shaking it. “Please don't call a taxi.”
“You definitely shouldn't drive.” Guilt plucked at me and was soon joined by a chord of remorse. I’d never served a drunk person before. Ever. I’d had plenty of drunk folks come in here and try to order, but this was the first time I hadn’t denied service.
Because you were too busy being flustered by lust, stalker!
“They all know me,” he said, cutting into my tumultuous thoughts.
I rubbed my forehead, trying to think, find my usual calm, and responded on autopilot, “Who knows you?” I needed to keep him talking. If he talked, then he’d stay awake and that would buy me time to figure out a solution to this insane problem.
“Everyone.” He said this to his beer, which was when I noticed he still had alcohol in front of him.
Deftly, I snatched the pint glass and poured the remainder down the drain. “You mean, all the taxicab drivers know you?”
“There is only one season in Texas: football season.” He laughed again, a Texas twang making its first appearance.
I think I understood: if I put him in a cab, then he'd be recognized, and that might not turn out well for him, like in Seattle.
“Can I call someone?” I asked, wondering if I should brew coffee as my gaze skated over his handsome features. He was drunk, but he also looked absolutely exhausted. Compassion squeezed my heart.
“Nope. No one.” He chuckled, and the chuckle picked up speed in that way it often does with the intoxicated. Soon he was laughing. Hard. Soundlessly.
Waiting for his laughter to subside, I continued to study him, at a loss for the hundredth time that night. My guilt at having served alcohol to a drunk Rex felt like a boulder, heavy on my chest.
When his hilarity tapered, I asked gently, “What about your brother?”
“Lives in New York.”
“Your sister?”
“Bahamas.”
“Your dad?”
“Don’t call him.”
I chewed on my lip, debating. “You have so many friends. Surely—”
“No,” he said firmly, his smile falling suddenly, his eyes cloudy with what looked like misery. “Unless you want to get married . . .?”
I made a face to hide the strange tightening in my throat. Because, whaaaa? Drunk Rex wanted to marry me? Is that what he meant? Come on. That’d be crazy and predatory on my part, even if I did know of a 24-hour drive-through marriage barn not more than five miles from—
NOPE.
Really, Abby? Really? Can we discuss this?
GASP! You rapacious bitch, how dare you! Drunks can’t consent, and no way he actually wanted to marry me.
Or, and hear me out, you could always just do it and, if he regretted the decision once sober, he could divor—
Absolutely. Not.
Rex’s hand covered mine, yanking me from my guilty thoughts and sending a rush of spiky alertness up my arm.
And by “alertness,” I meant: ALERT! WE HAVE PURPOSEFUL TOUCHING!
“Hey, you know what?” He lowered his voice, and I did my darndest to focus on his words and not the feel of his hand covering mine, warm and strong. Rex leaned in, his hazel eyes intent. “We could get married. You could marry me. If I were married, then it would stop.”
Breathless—both from arguing with the astonishingly irrational, sinister, and selfish devil on my shoulder and the way he was currently looking at me, so hopeful, vulnerable—I slowly pulled my hand away, folded my arms, and tried to reason with us both. “Rex, you’re drunk. It’s fifteen minutes past closing time. Who do I call to pick you up?”
His jaw ticked, his gaze turning to an icy glare. “No. One. Just. . .” His eyes seemed to thaw and then warm the longer they held mine, his forehead wrinkling, and abruptly he looked distinctly despairing. “You are—”
I held my breath as seconds ticked by, the moment officially becoming prolonged.
Then he finally finished his thought with, “—very beautiful for a bartender.”
Ingrid and the couple from table six helped me load Rex into my car. Yes, moving him required all four of us. He’d been a big, muscly guy in high school, but now he was like a wall of concrete and had grown at least two inches since our senior year. Luckily, miracle of miracles, neither Ingrid nor the couple had seemed to recognize him.
“Where are you taking me?” he mumbled as soon as I slid into the driver’s seat and closed my door.
“Alenbach, to your dad’s house.” I eyed the seat belt on his right, he made no move to fasten it. “You should put your belt on.”
“Or we could go somewhere else.” He shifted, presumably trying to face me, but my car was just too small. Even with the seat all the way back, Rex’s knees hit the dash.
“Like where? Are you feeling okay? Should I take you to the hospital?”
“Like your place.” His voice was barely more than a rumbly whisper, and he punctuated the suggestiveness of his words with an absentminded lick of his lips.
I huff-chuckled, shaking my head, refusing to entertain the suggestion even though I really wanted to entertain the suggestion. I wanted to entertain the suggestion so hard.
But no.
His dad’s house in Alenbach was the safest place for him. “Do you need help with your seat belt?”
Rex blinked slowly, his bleary eyes lowering to my mouth. “Yes.”
Gritting my teeth against the ruckus of fluttery nerves in my stomach, I silently cursed myself. I hadn’t really meant the offer. In Texas, sometimes when folks make an offer, it’s really just a not-so-subtle hint for the other person to do something.
Do you want me to get the door? really means Go answer the damn door.
Do you need help getting your shoes on? really means Why haven’t you put your damn shoes on yet?
He was from Texas, he knew the code! And yet he didn’t move, just kept staring at my mouth while our breaths increasingly fogged the interior glass.
Swallowing thickly, I rolled my eyes for no reason and ground out a terse, “Fine.”
I unfastened my seat belt before I could think better of it, reached over Rex’s barrel of a chest and tried to grab the passenger-side seat belt. This, of course, brought our faces within inches and the entirety of my torso flush against his. The ruckus in my stomach became a hullabaloo, and I snatched the belt, pulling it too quickly and tripping the stop mechanism.
“Dad gum it,” I swore, shaking my head at myself, and held my breath. I needed to slow my movements. Coaxing the belt forward, I felt a whisper of a touch on my back and I stiffened, my eyes cutting to his.