Page 10 of The Destined SEAL
Where are you?
What are you doing?
You better text me back right now.
Call me.
FUCKING CALL ME.
“Who the fuck is Marcus?” I ask, and the second I say his name, I know who it is. The guy she studies with. I gulp in a huge breath as the significance of this hits me full force. “Harper,” I say her name like a question. “Why is he texting you like this?” I flash the cracked screen at her face so she can see his obviously angry messages.
She looks away, to the right. “Do you think we can get it fixed tonight? I bet some place is open.” Taking the phone from my hand, she licks her lips and examines it closer.
Grinding my teeth, I take her hand in mine. “Let’s go.” I text a group message to let my friends know we’re taking off because Harper is drunk. A few inappropriate emoji messages flash up immediately. Even in a venue such as this loud, raucous theater, my brothers are tuned into their surroundings and their phones in case of emergency.
Clutching my arm in a death grip, Harper lets me guide her out into the street. I pull up my app and call for an Uber while seething in her direction. “What are you keeping from me?” I interrupt. Harper is talking to me about a club at school and how her mom gave her a bag of goodies we should eat when we get back. “Avoiding the subject isn’t going to fare well for you.”
Her head whips in my direction, hurt shining in her eyes. I open my mouth to apologize, but the white sedan squeals around the corner. Twenty-five security guards who pace the exterior of the theater are automatically on alert at the quick, asshole maneuver. Their guns are drawn, and gazes slide to our proximity. Even halfway in the bag, I’m aware of everything around me. I hold up my hand to show the guards everything is okay. “Ubers. Time is money, right?” I call out. Security doesn’t look amused with my lowbrow jab and continue to monitor our every step.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” a guard asks Harper as he approaches us.
“Me?” Harper looks alarmed at the attention. Her eyes flit to the gun in his hand. As do mine. For a different reason. “I’m fine. I drank too much, but it’s my birthday and the band was amazing. Are we in trouble? It’s all his fault if we are,” she says, hiking a thumb over her shoulder awkwardly. “Everything is always his fault. He never does anything he’s supposed to.”
I groan and lean over to talk to the Uber driver, who rolled down the window. To the guard I say, “I’m trying to get my friend home, sir.”
He nods and holsters his gun and then warns the driver to slow down. The guy looks scared, and if I was already concerned about putting Harper’s life in the hands of a strange driver, now I’m even more so. “Harper,” I say, guiding her into the back seat. My hand accidentally brushes her bare stomach, and she freezes at the touch.
She straightens and slides into the seat with a clumsy slump. I wish the officer good night and sit next to Harper in the back seat.
“You really could use some driving lessons. Didn’t you think about where you were picking us up? Guards crawl all over crowds. Use your head a little. You have one job.”
He looks abashed. I’m not sure if it’s because of my size, the fact I’m leaning into the front seat, or the threat behind my words, but it works. He drives the speed limit all the way to my place. Harper is asleep, draped across my lap when he puts the car in park. I pull her out of the car as gently as I can. She rouses and swallows, wiping the corner of her mouth with her forearm. “That was a quick trip,” she mutters, fidgeting with the phone she has tucked in her top.
The car pulls away slowly, and I lead her up the cobblestones of my front walkway. It’s a cottage, a small house with one bedroom and few furnishings. Harper was impressed when we stopped here earlier to drop off her things. She said it reminded her of a hobbit house and skipped across the hardwood floor like a Disney princess. I pull my key out of my pocket and try to keep one arm on her as she leans against the doorframe.
With her head against the dark gray stone, she lets it fall to the side. “You’re cute when you’re furious,” she says, slurring every other word.
I close my eyes, take in a calming breath, and push the door open. I hold out my arm like a good gentleman should and tamp down on the boiling rage I feel thinking about the text messages and her meek attempts to avoid the subject. “After you,” I say, prompting her when she doesn’t make a move.
Her eyes scan my face, and her gaze falls to my lips. My heart hammers, and that uneasy, questionable feeling enters my bloodstream for the second time tonight. “I should stay at my parents’ house. Think that driver can come take me there?” Harper asks. After her question is out, she begins humming a song from Cold War Kids.
I shake my head. “It’s late. I want to talk to you. Go in, Harper.”
Sighing, she flicks her gaze over my chest and midsection and then walks through the door, ambling to the brown grocerysack on the counter in the kitchen. She pulls herself up on the barstool and dumps the bag with the grace of Ben-Hur. “Come eat some of this with me, Benny.”
My anger subsides a touch when she uses my old nickname, but I wonder if she’s doing it purposefully. I know her well enough to know how well she knows me. “Marcus,” I say. One word. “Start talking.”
She spins on the stool, a string of licorice in her hand, wielding it like a weapon. “He’s my boyfriend, Ben. What do you want to know?”
I’m drawn to her, and even though I don’t remember moving, I’m standing in front of her in seconds, her eyes looking up at me and my frame in between her legs. “Let’s pretend for a second that he is really your boyfriend, which I have a hard time believing because you haven’t mentioned that. Why is he texting you like a ragey asshole? That’s not okay. Even less okay than you having a boyfriend to begin with.”
She scowls. “You’re not my father. You can’t tell me I can’t have a boyfriend. Heck, even my father can’t tell me I can’t have a boyfriend. I’m an adult the last time I checked.”
Shaking my head, I say, “I never said you couldn’t have one. I said I don’t like it.”
Harper catches her breath and holds it. After a beat of two, she brings the red candy to her lips and bites off a piece. Chewing with her mouth closed, she watches my face. After she swallows, she says, “I’ve been with him for a while now. I told you we studied together, and that wasn’t a lie. We have classes together. Same major. As for why he acted like a complete moron in those texts, well, I can’t say for sure. Though I’m not sure why, but I think jealousy might have something to do with it.”
“Can I call him?” My heart is hammering. No one talks to Harper like that. No one touches Harper. No one loves Harper. No one but me.
