Page 58 of Sweet Chaos
“Where are you?” I snapped, not even attempting to hide my annoyance. New song in the background. Still loud. Def Leppard?
“He’s at the Last Stand, darlin’.”
My brows drew together. I didn’t recognize the voice. “Um, who’s this?”
“Name’s Cal Whitaker. Your boy’s in a bad way. I think he could use a friend.”
“He’s not my boy and we’re not really friends.” Now I was just being petty.
Cal chuckled. “Whatever you say. Think you can come and get him? His car’s here but he’s in no shape to drive and neither am I.”
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” I thought to ask.
“No, darlin’. Just come and get him.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
After I hung up, I looked at Nic.
She sighed. “Let me get some clothes on.”
We scrambled off the sofa and got dressed in record time. Minutes later, we were headed to The Last Stand with Nic cracking last stand jokes while I chewed on my thumbnail.
When Nic pulled up outside the bar, we both stared out the window. Dylan was leaning against the brick wall, a lit cigarette clamped between his lips, the neon sign above his head bathing him in blue. The smoke from his cigarette curled into the air, forming a smokescreen over his face. Dressed in black, dark hair messy and disheveled, with his tattoos and his cigarette, he looked like he belonged on an album cover.
“He looks really shitfaced,” Nic said. “Do you need me to drive you guys?”
“No, thanks. His car’s here. I’ve got this.”
“I’ll just wait here to make sure you’re okay.”
I reached across the center console and hugged her. “Love you. Thanks for being the best friend ever.”
She laughed and swatted me away. “Get out of here. Your boy needs help.”
And man, did he ever. I walked toward Dylan and stopped in front of him as he exhaled smoke from the corner of his mouth, his bloodshot blue-grays trying to bring me into focus. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and he had stubble on his jaw like he hadn’t shaved since I’d last seen him.
My heart stuttered when I saw the sorrow and pain etched on his face, a bruise on his cheekbone like he’d been in a fight. He took another drag of his cigarette then tossed it to the ground and let it burn. I crushed it under my boot and focused on him again.
“Are you okay?” I reached for his hand, not to hold it, but to inspect the damage. Even though my touch was gentle, he winced. His knuckles had scabbed over, and his hand looked swollen. “What happened?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He lightly brushed the backs of his knuckles over my cheekbone. “Sweet, sweet Scarlett.”
I pulled away from his touch and took a deep breath, trying to steel myself against the tenderness in his voice and the sadness in his eyes. When he said he’d ruin me for other guys, he hadn’t been joking.
“We should go.”
Wordlessly, he handed me his keys and pushed off from the wall then stumbled across the parking lot to his car. He was so drunk, it took him three tries and a lot of muttered curses to click the seatbelt into the holder.
The drive to the hospital was quiet. He was passed out in the passenger seat while I navigated his big-ass SUV, sneaking furtive glances at him while he slept. When I pulled into the hospital parking deck and cut the engine, I released my seatbelt and turned in my seat, watching him for a few minutes until his eyelids fluttered open. He sat up, running both hands through his hair and looked around him in confusion.
“We’re at the hospital. Remy’s having her baby,” I reminded him. He shoved the door open and tumbled out of the car, grabbing hold of the door before his knees hit the concrete.
“Fucking hell,” he said, forcefully slamming the door shut like it had wronged him.
“She’s gonna be okay,” he said as we waited for the elevator after having confirmed that the birthing center was on the fifth floor. “She has to be okay. Can’t fucking lose her.” The words were ripped from his throat like it was painful to say them and for a brief moment, I got a glimpse of the boy, not the man. The achingly beautiful boy with messy dark hair and a vulnerability that made me want to wrap my arms around him and soothe his troubled soul.
How could he make me want to throat punch him one minute and cry for him in the next? It was his superpower. It was how he got under my skin, into my heart, and into my head.
