Page 103 of Sinful Like Us
A translation comes through my brain:Thatcher, help me.
20
THATCHER MORETTI
Swiftly and easily,I lift Jane off the glass-shattered ground and into a front-piggyback. She just dropped her drink, whiskey soaking the floorboards, and she almost went down with the liquor. She can’t stand on her own, and right when the glass broke, the team stopped yelling over each other.
I’ve never seen her this plastered, not even through the six-and-a-half years I’ve been a bodyguard. Jane Cobalt is notoriouslycomposedwhen she’s drunk. She’ll do cute things like trip over her own feet and call meMr. Moretti—but she’ll right herself up with some type of poise. When the matchup is Jane vs. Whiskey, I’d put my money on my girlfriend every time.
And I’d lose that bet tonight.
She blinks a hell of a lot, panic behind her blue eyes.
I tuck her to my sturdy chest. Protective. One of my hands is lost in her blue skirt. Really, I’m cupping her ass, an effortless hold, and I press my other palm to the back of her head, whispering against her ear, “I have you, honey.”
She eases into me.
“Here.” Farrow passes me a glass of water.
“Is she pale?” Maximoff asks, voice hard-edged but he looks concerned. He’s probably seen her this wasted. Hell, I know he’s held her hair back while she’s puked.
Before I came along, he’d be the one holding Jane, and the fact that he’s not upset that I’ve taken over—it means we’re makinggoodstrides.
For once I’m not trekking twenty klicks in the wrong fucking direction.
Is she pale?
“No,” I answer him.
Her cheeks are somewhat ashen, but she’s breathing normal and the longer she realizes I have her, the more she smiles and smooths her lips together.
Blushing.
I’ve been around harder, more shit-faced partying and seen a fellow infantryman wake up buck-ass naked in his own piss and vomit. She’s nowhere near that level of fucked, but if you saw her best friend, you’d think she’s a foot in the grave.
“She’s not dying, wolf scout,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. “She just needs fluids.”
Maximoff nods, then slides off her feather purse that slips down her arm. I nod to him in thanks, and he tells us, “She doesn’t usually go down this hard, this fast.”
I try to catch her drifting gaze. “She probably didn’t eat enough today. Food should sober her up.”
Maximoff is already moving out. “I’ll go find some at the bar.” He leaves while Farrow stays to help me.
“Jane,” I say, seizing her gaze. “Water.”
“Mmm.” She smiles up at me.
My lip almost rises. “Drink this.”
She bats her lashes dazedly.
“Copy?”
“Mmhmm.” She nods firmly. “Yes.”
I put the glass to her mouth and tilt. Her big blue eyes planted on mine, she takes small, slurping sips like a fucking kitten. Even hammered, she’s an adorable drunk.
While she contemplates taking another sip, I assess the perimeter on instinct. Christmas lights blink in the darkened pub, and ear-splitting chatter and music meld together.
