Page 67 of Bloom

If I acknowledge his presence, I’ll start crying again, and I’m so damn sick of crying.

The glass just touches my lips, another round of tequila on its way to dull the pain in my chest, when my actions are foiled.

Snatching the glass away, Hunter slides it down the bar. “I’m talkin’ to you, Caroline.”

His accent gets stronger when he’s angry, I notice, right before I flinch at said anger. I flinch hard, almost throwing myself off the stool I’m precariously perched on. Warm hands grab my hips before I hit the floor, and I hate that such a simple, saving touch makes me flinch once more.

The hands disappear immediately. They grab the stool instead, careful not to touch me as wood scratches against tile, as I’m spun until my back hits the bar. Then, they settle on either side of me, gripping the counter and erasing any chance for me to fall.

The urge to meet the eyes I know are seeking out mine is overwhelming, but I refuse. I keep staring at his chest, but I swear Ifeelthose eyes narrow. “You're drunk.”

I snort.Thank you, Captain Obvious.

“You don't drink.”

“Can’t a girl change her mind?”

When he tenses, I internally cheer. I assume my snide comeback caught him off guard. Surprised him. Showed him I’m capable of wit and snark and—

My triumph dies. He cradles my chin and tilts my head upwards, and it evaporates, replaced by the pure panic I’ve only felt once before, mere hours ago. I flinch, wince,cringe, jerking away from him, but not quick enough that he doesn't have the chance to stoop down and sniff my freaking breath.

“Jesus, Line.” He swears and drops his hand. Shakes it off like it’s dirty. Curls it into a tight fist. “How much have you had?”

It’s a rhetorical question, clearly, because he doesn’t wait for an answer. He swears again before leaning around me and using those long arms to grab a glass from the other side of the counter and fill it with water.

“Sorry,” I slur, dodging the beverage when he tries to tip it towards my lips. “Am I embarrassing you?”

Hunter stops his efforts. He says nothing, and I wonder if I glanced up, what expression I’d find. A furrowed brow, for sure. No doubt some kind of blazing, hazel intensity. Probably anger or disappointment or pity, since everything I do seems to inspire one, or all, of those three emotions. It's pure wishful thinking, hoping for anything else.

“Line,” he says slowly, and I really hate that even a rock-solid armor of every alcohol known to man can't prevent my heart from thumping erratically at the sound of my nickname falling from his lips. “You better not be here because of me.”

And just like that, my heart pounds for different reasons. “You wish.”

No,Iwish.

I wish that the worst part of my day was Hunter being mean to me.

I wish that the worst part of my day was just myfeelingsgetting hurt.

I wish it was simple, mundane boy troubles that drove me to have my first drink ever.

A bitter laugh escapes me as I shake my head before forcing it to lift, forcing my gaze on a slow upwards path. My thoughts, his words, or maybe just the alcohol—one of those things incites something bold in me, inspires me to give him a piece of my mind. I have no idea what I'm going to say, and I don't get the chance to figure it out because the moment my eyes meet Hunter's, I forget every word in my vocabulary.

I was partly correct. He is frowning, his dark brows knitted together and deep groves lining his forehead. Blazing intensity, I do find. But he doesn't look angry, nor disappointed, and not even pitying. He looks...

Sad.

Really sad.

Andsadis a devastating look on Hunter.

I'm so caught up on that one single emotion that I almost miss the other ones lurking, the guilt dulling his gaze and something else, something soft that I can't place because I'm too focused on the immensity of those first two.

I wait for all that emotion to disappear, for him to slide a mask in place to hide what he’s really feeling like he tends to do, but no such thing happens. If anything, it gets stronger. Heavier. And suddenly, it's not just the alcohol making me feel dizzy.

Neither of us say anything. We both refuse to look away first. Sober Caroline would've folded already. Sober Caroline would've taken one look at that fierce expression and dropped her gaze, skin flushed and heart thumping and mind whirring and tongue tripping over an evading subject change.

Drunk Caroline is a separate entity entirely. Drunk Caroline would rather freaking die than back down. God, I can see, in a sick way, how people get addicted to this, to the unshakable confidence. The fearlessness. The utter conviction that I coulddo anything, without care or consequence. It’s that mindset that urges my mouth open, presses my tongue to form words I’ll likely regret when I’m sober. But once again, whatever empowering rant is brewing gets cut off, a clearing throat the culprit this time.

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