Page 56 of The Fine Line
“Cub, wait.”
“What now?”
“Your phone.”
I bend down and scoop it up from where it lies in the parking lot.
She exhales hard, blowing a strand of hair from her face as she lets the door fall shut again and walks over to take it. She turns to leave, but I catch her hand.
“How are you planning to get home?”
She glances down at my fingers wrapped around her wrist. I don’t let go.
“I’ll get an Uber,” she says.
“How?” I ask. “Your phone’s dead.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Well, the bar closes in…” I glance at my watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
“I could conquer the world in fifteen minutes, Sutton.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
She presses her lips together, her gaze flicking between my eyes the way it has maybe a dozen times over the years—like she’s searching for something.
Every time, I wonder if she’s going to find it. That look gives me a little bubble of hope in my chest, every time. But it never lasts. It always gets swallowed by the tidal wave of dread.
“Hey,” I break in gently. “You feeling okay?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Just… I’m worried you’re gonna be sick.”
She groans dramatically. “Please. I never throw up.”
I give her a look. “Yeah, well… there’s a first time for everything.”
She rolls her eyes but wobbles slightly, reaching out to steady herself on my arm.
I catch her without thinking, keeping my hand at her elbow even as she waves me off.
“Seriously, I’m fine,” she insists.
A beat passes. Just long enough for her to try to shake me off. Just long enough for the color to drain from her face.
Her lips part again—but this time she slaps a hand over her mouth.
And bolts.
Well—tries to. She only makes it about five feet before doubling over and puking all over the front passenger tire of my Range Rover.
I rush over, crouching beside her. One hand gathers her hair, the other steadies her back as she keeps going. “There it is,” I mutter.
“Rhett, why are you here?” she mumbles.
I swallow.
