Andie grasped my arm, her fingernails biting into my biceps. “Forget about it, Wyatt.” She tugged on me, trying to pull me back. “Just leave it.”
“Yeah, Wyatt,” the city boy sneered. “Why don’t you just walk away?”
Shaking Andie off, I cocked back my fist and aimed for that smug fucking mouth of his.
City boy dodged, leaving me off-balance as my arm swung through empty air. He came back at me lightning fast and his fist connected with my face. All that drinking had slowed my reflexes, but on the bright side it also numbed me to the pain. I recovered quickly, aiming for his stomach this time and landing a solid enough blow to double him over. He shoved me while I was getting ready for my next punch, and I shoved him back, hard enough to send him stumbling a few steps.
He came at me again and tackled me to the floor. The breath rushed out of my lungs as he landed on top of me. He reared back and landed another punch on my face before he was dragged off me by some benevolent bystanders.
“Goddammit!” My uncle Randy’s voice roared through the ringing in my head. “This is a family establishment.”
Groaning, I rolled onto my side and squinted up out of my uninjured eye. Andie’s face appeared in my somewhat blurry field of vision, looking like an angel.
“You’re such a dumbass,” she said, kneeling beside me, and I couldn’t help laughing, even though it made my head ring even more. She touched her fingertips to my cheek, and I flinched at the sudden pulse of pain. “Are you okay?”
“I’m great,” I mumbled, draping an arm across her legs as I pillowed my head on her lap. My head was hurting so fucking bad, all I wanted to do was curl myself around her until it stopped.
She laid her hand on my hair and I nuzzled against it, dimly aware of my uncle shouting at the guy who’d manhandled Andie, telling him he was banned for life and ordering someone to throw him off the premises.
A shadow loomed over me, and I blinked up at Uncle Randy’s angry mustache. “Get up off my goddamn floor.”
I tried to push myself upright, wavered, and felt Andie insert herself under my arm.
“Can you walk?” Randy asked. “Or do I need to have you dragged to my office?”
Andie pressed herself against me, her arm wrapping around my back to lend support, and I managed to get to my feet. “I can walk,” I told Randy. With Andie’s body up next to me like this, I could probably fly.
“Then get your ass in there and wait for me.” Randy’s eyes flicked to Andie and softened. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, and he gave her a nod back before tilting his head in the direction of his office. The crowd that had gathered began to disperse as Andie guided me toward the hallway next to the bar. When we passed Mariana, she handed Andie a plastic bag full of ice.
My head was throbbing even more by the time we made it into Randy’s office. Andie dumped me on the long leather couch beneath a mounted set of steer horns, and I laid my head back, closing my eyes.
“Here.” She sat down beside me, and I flinched when she held the ice to my face. I tried to push it away, but she captured my hand to stop me. “Don’t be such a baby.”
“But it hurts,” I whined, knowing I was an asshole for enjoying this more than I should.
“Good,” she shot back, but her hand kept hold of mine, her soft fingertips pressing into my palm.
Just that simple, quiet connection between us was enough to ease the ringing in my head and make my dick inconveniently jerk to life.
Until Randy strode into the room, slamming the door behind him, and my dick tried to crawl inside my body. I sat up straight, taking the ice bag from Andie, and prepared to get a dressing down from my favorite uncle.
Randy sat down behind his old wooden desk and crossed his arms, glaring at me. “What did I tell you about fighting?”
“Never start a fight I can’t finish.”
A muscle twitched in Randy’s jaw. “What did I tell you about fighting in my place of business?”
I attempted to look contrite. “Never do it at all.”
“Under any circumstances,” Randy added for emphasis.
I jutted out my chin stubbornly. “Okay, but if you’d seen the way that prick grabbed Andie—”
“Then I would have alerted my security staff and let them throw him out like they’re paid to. Which is what you should have done.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“I’m sorry too,” Andie said.
Randy shook his head. “You don’t have a thing to apologize for, Andie. I’m sorry for the way you were treated in my establishment. That kid’s picture has been added to the wall of shame, and I promise you he won’t ever be allowed in the door again.” Randy’s gaze swung back to me with an expression like a raptor that had just sighted a mouse. “Exactly how drunk are you?”
“Not that drunk,” I lied, trying to keep Mariana from getting in trouble.
“You know I can check your bar tab, right?”
“I was buying drinks for other people,” I said with a shrug.
Randy sighed and gritted his teeth. “I guess we better find someone to drive you home.”
“I can do it,” Andie said.
I swiveled my head to look at her, feeling guilty and elated at the same time. Then even more guilty for being elated.
“You sure?” Randy asked her, arching an eyebrow.
“I don’t mind.” Andie turned to look at me with a smile that shot straight to the center of my shriveled husk of a heart. “I’ll take Wyatt home.”
3
Andie
Wyatt fell asleep five minutes after he climbed into my car. I had to shake him awake and pry him out of the passenger seat when we got to his apartment.
He seemed a lot drunker now that the adrenaline from the fight had worn off. I should probably count myself lucky he hadn’t thrown up in my Jeep. He leaned against me heavily with one arm slung around my shoulders, stumbling slightly as we trudged up the walk to his duplex.
When we got to his door, I propped him against the wall and held out my hand. “Keys.”
His eyes had fallen closed again as soon as we stopped walking, and he had a hand pressed to his face like it was hurting him. He plunged his other hand into the front pocket of his jeans and promptly dropped his keys on the ground. “Shit,” he muttered, wincing, and tumbled forward to retrieve them.
“Whoa.” I grabbed him, shoving my shoulder against his chest to force him upright again. “Let me get those. If you hit the floor, that’s gonna be it. I’ll never be able to move you, and you’ll have to spend the night outside with the possums.”
Wyatt had a fear of opossums—also known as didelphiphobia—that dated back to an encounter on our farm when he was a kid. They were harmless—beneficial creatures that ate pests, helped clean up messes, and were nearly immune to rabies—but he’d never gotten over the sight of one hissing at him and showing off its impressive mouthful of teeth.
“I don’t like possums,” he mumbled as I held him in place with one hand while I stooped to snatch up the keys with the other. “They’re like giant rats, but with even more teeth. They have more teeth than any other mammal, you know.”