Page 54 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I should have known better, leaving her alone for more than a moment. She might not believe it, but I know there are eyes on her all the time. Her otherworldliness draws people in. Their gazes. Now their hands.

My blood boils seeing this guy’s hand on her knee. Then her thigh.

I shoot a look to Cressida. She picked up a shift here tonight and usually takes good care of me, but she’s swamped, having to balance several drink orders at once. I’m at the bottom of that list because she knows I won’t give her a hard time. All I asked for was two whiskey cokes. Broken Spoke isn’t known for its cocktails. All I need is the well whiskey and a squirt of Coke in each glass.

Instead, I have to wait and watch Eleanor squirm in her seat while Cressida works her way through the drinks.

I look back at Eleanor and this guy. It burns my insides to have to look, but if I don’t look, he might do something, and I wouldn’t forgive myself if I stood idly by while that happened.

The man’s hand shifts to the bottom of her seat between her legs, and he drags her closer to him. Eleanor laughs, however, her eyes are rolling away from him, wide through the lenses of her glasses, crying for help.

Fuck the drinks. We don’t need them. Cressida and I can hash it out next time she’s at Lonesome Rose.

I stalk over to the table, trying to rein in the fury I’d like to unleash. My father always said calm, cool, and collected is the best way to deal with assholes. And if that doesn’t get rid of them, let out the fire and brimstone.

As I close in, my shadow drapes over the table.

Eleanor notices: her eyes shoot to me. The relief is visible through her eyes and body when she sees me.

“We got a problem here?” I ask.

The man glances back at me, then at Eleanor. Back to me again. “Shit, you didn’t say your friend was a guy,” he says through a laugh, still well-humored.

Eleanor says nothing. Her lips are sealed shut. Poor thing looks like she’s been scared half to death.

“Yeah, he is,” I say. I place my hand on the back of his chair. “And I think you’re in my seat.”

Dave lifts his hands. “Sorry, buddy, if I’d known she was yours—”

“She’s not,” I interrupt. Because she belongs to no one. As much as I wish she belonged to me, I’ve been too much of a coward to ask. And even so, it doesn’t matter if she’s got a guy or if she’s on her own—discomfort is discomfort. No one deserves that. “And that shouldn’t matter. I could tell from a mile away she wasn’t interested. Shocked you couldn’t.”

Eleanor covers her mouth with her hand, resisting a laugh.

The guy gets up out of the chair, a little uneasy on his feet. “I got it, I got it. Have a . . . night,” he says before stumbling off. Just a hapless dude who doesn’t know his way around flirting. So many of them like that. They’re harmless until they’re not.

I watch him go, limping off to the next object of his desires. I lower myself into the seat across from Eleanor. “You okay?”

Eleanor nods. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Her voice, while plain, is clearly veiling a well of emotions.

I wish she didn’t feel she had to hide herself from me. “You sure? You want some water or—”

“Can we just—” Eleanor begins, but her breath is trapped in her throat.

I’d like to reach out and touch her. But the last thing I want to do is make anything worse.

“Can we just get some fresh air?” she manages to choke out.

Fuck the drinks, fuck the dancing. We need to get out of here. “Yeah, let’s go out back.”

Eleanor follows me through the crush of people in the bar back toward the patio at the back of the bar. I want nothing more than to reach back and take her hand, make sure I don’t lose her in the throng. Let everyone know that she is mine because, fuck it, I’m done pretending she’s not.

It might not be the right moment, but the second I get her alone, when the world softens around us, I’m letting it out. I can’t hold it down anymore. Life is too goddamn short. I know well enough from losing my dad. If I lose her by being open, so be it.

It’s gotten to a point where this hurts more. Pretending I’m not feeling everything I’m feeling.

The night air isn’t necessarily cool, but it feels like menthol to my lungs. Although that might be the smoke of cigarettes pilling in the air.

Eleanor emerges next to me, her eyes glassy.

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