Page 23 of The Oscar Escape
Another breakdown.
“How’s that sound, buddy?” Justin added, turning up the wattage on his grin.
Oscar clenched his jaw. This butthole douche nozzle thought he could get away with disrespecting Aria and then call him his fuckingbuddy.Screw the paparazzi. He hadn’t wanted to make a scene. His goal had been to slip in, get Aria, and sneak out without anyone knowing.
So much for that.
Every muscle in his body knew what had to be done. And he sure as hell wasn’t a second grader worried about getting in trouble at school. He released Aria’s hand and waved Justin in closer. “News flash, jackass. I’m not your fucking buddy.” He squeezed his hand into a tight fist and landed a sharp jab straight at Justin’s belly, targeting the solar plexus. This move was a little ditty he’d picked up from his best friend Sebastian Cress—the son of boxing legend Erasmus Cress. And boy, oh boy, did it knock the sails out of this boy band buffoon.
Justin doubled over and gasped for breath.
“If it’s not entirely evident, I won’t be needing a bullshit boy band T-shirt. And don’t worry. You’ll catch your breath eventually,buddy.”
And that’s how it’s done—hothead style with a side of beefcake.
Feeling like he’d won the lottery, Oscar admired his handy work. Justin’s eyes bulged, and his mouth hung open like a beached flounder. He hadn’t done any permanent damage to the singer. The crooner would be right as rain in about five minutes. He eyed the gasping guy—perhaps ten minutes was a better estimate. He turned to bask in the glow of Aria’s appreciation when a sharp pop to his chin had him staggering backward.
“Christ, Aria!” he bit out.
How could he have forgotten that she knew as much about boxing as he did? And she could still throw one hell of a right hook.
He cradled his face in his hands. “Why did you hit me?”
“Because you did it again.” She picked up the mic. “It’s another second-grade switcheroo! Another second-grade switcheroo!” she screeched like a deranged carnival barker.
Second-grade switcheroo?
He’d momentarily forgotten she’d called it that when he’d stopped her—with his own body—from kicking the shit out of a bully.Still, he couldn’t concern himself with her word choice. She swayed and rubbed her eyes. The woman was going downhill quickly. She dropped the mic. A piercing crack cut through the club as it clattered against the neon table.
Seemingly unaware of the jarring sound, Aria stared at her limp hand. “Welp, the muscle relaxer pills must be kicking in now,” she said, teetering on her high heels.
He forgot his throbbing jaw and wrapped his arm around her. He held her close. “How many pills did you take?”
“I haven’t been keeping track. But it could be the whiskey and the cold medicine combo that’s got me off balance. I had a lot, a lot, a lot of both. I need it to keep going and going and going,” she sputtered.
Dammit to hell!
Why did she do this to herself?
Anger sliced through him, but the painful sensation couldn’t stop his heart from aching. He cared too much about her to let her continue down this perilous road. Another glaring fact was crystal clear. Compared to the last time she’d pushed herself past her limits, this episode was ten times worse.
He needed an escape plan.
He tightened his hold on her and looked around. With Justin still out for the count, they had to get the hell out of there before she collapsed for the world to see. Searching for the closest exit, he cursed under his breath when he spied trouble headed their way.
“Delivery guy!” the bouncer called as he plowed through the crowd.
Oscar cringed. “Shit!”
Aria peered over her shoulder. “That big guy looks majorly pissed off. I’d hate to have him coming for me.”
“Lucky for you, he’s coming for me.”
“For you?” she slurred, wobbling on her high heels.
“We need to blow this joint,” he answered and surveyed the dance floor. They still had a captive audience—a captive audience blocking a direct route to the entrance.
Aria pulled a wad of tissue paper from her cleavage. “We’re not leaving without her. She’s coming with us.”
