Page 68 of Bloom

I try to turn towards the sound, but Hunter steps an inch closer. He makes any movement impossible, allowing me to look only at the broad expanse of his chest.Scowlat it, more accurately. The same way he’s surely scowling at whatever’s behind me—even though I can’t quite see his face, that scowl of his is a tangible thing.

“Hey, Hunter.” I recognize Tommy’s voice, recognize the nervous jump in it as easily as I recognize the twitch of Hunter’s jaw as annoyed. “Can I get you guys something else?”

A frown claims my features.Something else,as in, he’s already ordered something? He’s been here long enough to order something?You guys, as in he’s here with other people? So consumed by his mere presence, I didn’t even considerwhyhe’s here—beyond him having a special knack for finding me at my worst. I definitely didn't jump to the 'he's just here for a casual drink with friends' conclusion.

For one horrifying moment, I can only think of a couple of people Hunter would voluntarily spend one-on-one time with. A pair of siblings I would very much prefer not see me like this.

My concerns are quickly put to rest. All it takes is a quick peek around a bulging bicep, and a fight through the wave of dizziness that movement—and a hand settling on my lower back to steady my wobbling—incites. I vaguely recognize the men gathered around the pool table in the corner doing a godawful job at pretending they’re not looking over here, but I’m too far gone to put names to faces—too rapt by Hunter willingly being here with people who don’t pay him for his presence.

“You have friends?” I can’t help but ask, eyes wide with genuine, innocent awe.

“Besides you?” Hunter murmurs quietly, and my traitorous little heart flips. “A few.”

Hours ago; it washoursago that he was saying awful things. And now he’s teasing me. Sweetly calling me his friend. Holding me upright and forcing water down my throat.

Sighing, I shake my head. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair, honey?”

“You’re not even nice. It’s not fair that you have friends.”

I knock away the hand on my back, confused and flustered and needing space, but it doesn’t go far. It lands on my thigh instead. As hot and discombobulating as the one that sweeps my hair back before cupping my neck. He holds me gently, both thumbs tracing soothing circles, so freaking tender—such a stark juxtaposition to the way he barks at Tommy. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I hear the rustle of fabric, and I imagine the bartender wringing a dishtowel between nervous hands. “I’m just doing my job.”

“She can barely sit up straight, you fuck—”

“Stop it.” I poke a rock hard pectoral muscle. “Leave him alone. Leavemealone. Go away.”

Hunter tips his chin to peer down at me. “You're mean when you're drunk.”

“You're mean all the time.”

The words just slip out. I don't mean them, not entirely, but the drunken, defiant part of me is twistedly proud to say them. It likes the idea that I could hurt him with my words like he hurt me with his. But the part of me that registers Hunter tensing, his expression shutting down and his hands dropping, desperately wishes I could take them back. The weak part of me, maybe.

I suddenly feel very tiny, very cold, very exposed as Hunter steps back. He deprives me of the eye contact I suddenly long for, instead favoring glaring at my purse as he scoops it up off the counter, smacking down a wad of money in its place. “I'm taking you home.”

I clumsily snatch my bag from his grip. “No, you're not.”

“Caroline.”

“No.”

“I can take you home,” Tommy pipes up, only to be slapped down by a withering glare.

“Fuck off.”

“Hunter!” I slur a reprimand, drunkenly slapping at his chest. He catches my wrist before I can connect, cradling it so gently as his thumb swipes over my pulse point. It takes actual, physical, borderline painful effort to snatch it back. “I'm not going home.”

I don’t have a home. I have an angry, hateful house and a cold, empty attic, and I don’t want to be in either.

“Honey—”

Shaking my head, I spin to face the bar again, subsequently inciting a wave of nausea. I don't know if I physically wobble or if Hunter just makes an educated guess, but steadying hands land on my shoulders, fingers sweeping across my skin. I barely even register Tommy cautiously backing away from the situation, way too entranced by the soft press of a hard body against my back.

“Please.” I shiver when the word tickles the nape of my neck. “Please let me take you home.”

“No.”

---