Page 30 of A Little Too Late
“What are you doing?” I hiss. Then I grab the glass back again.
“Don’t get alcohol poisoning over this,” he murmurs. “They are not worth it.”
I squint at him. He looks blurry, but still handsome. “Know what? I’ve faced worse demons.”
He flinches.
“Don’t fuss. I’ll be fine. I live half a mile from here. I don’t even have to drive home. What could go wrong?”
CHAPTER 12
A HOT, IRRITATING MONSTER
REED
The night drags on forever. Only my father and Melody have escaped. They made their excuses and waved goodnight to everyone an hour ago.
I would bail, too, but the Sharpes keep topping up my whiskey—and Ava’s. I feel compelled to stand here and watch over her. The Sharpes’ personalities match as well as their ties. And I’d just as soon drop kick them off the summit than do business with them.
The eldest Sharpe pours the last of the bottle into Ava’s glass as her eyes turn to slits. She’s definitely drunk. In spite of her careful poise, I see the signs. The heavy eyelids. And the way her head looks a little too heavy for her neck.
I pick up her whiskey glass when Mr. Sharpe turns away, and I take a gulp of it. “This is bullshit,” I whisper.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she hisses.
“Did I say you couldn’t?”
“I don’t remember asking for your help. Please stop pretending to be nice to me.”
This makes me frown. “What if I’m not pretending?”
She rolls her eyes.
Mercifully, Grandpa Sharpe finally declares that it’s past his bedtime. “If you want to howl at the moon, you still have to get up with the roosters,” he says.
Hands are shaken all around. Luckily, Ava distributed the Sharpes’ room keys before she got wasted, so all she has to do is wave unsteadily from her barstool. “Breakfast is served until eleven,” she slurs.
And then they’re finally, blissfully gone.
“Jesus,” the evil bartender says as she collects all the glasses. “They’re awful.”
At least she and I agree on something. “They’re fucking terrible,” I grumble. “I’ve met hundreds of great people from Texas. And then there’s those guys.”
“Shhhh!” Ava stage-whispers. “They have a lot of money. And they won’t be living here. S-so it doesn’t matter if I don’t like their whiskey.” She hiccups. “Or their sexism. But I did it. I was fun! And I outlasted the Sharpes. Every damn one of them. Pass the trophy!” She throws her hands up in victory.
Unfortunately, this destabilizes her. And even as she grabs the edge of the bar for support, she slides awkwardly off the stool and toward the floor.
“Oh, shit, Ava,” Halley says, ducking under the bar to help.
“I’m fine!” Ava declares from a crouch near the floor.
I take a step toward her, but the bartender gets there first, helping Ava to her feet. “Sit still for fifteen minutes, okay? I’ll drive you up the hill just as soon as I can close.”
“No need,” she says blearily. “My pajamas are calling my name. Night!” Then she turns and carefully walks away from us.
“Oh Jesus.” I’m uneasy as I watch her slowly cross the lobby, her arms outstretched for balance. Like a tightrope walker with no safety net.
“Ava!” The bartender calls after her. “Where is your coat? And you can’t walk home in those heels!”
