Page 63 of What Hurts Us

“Sequins?” BJ chirped.

“Lace?” Beth giggled.

“Oooh! A train! Like a long Princess Diana train! And puffy sleeves! And bows!” BJ yelled. “Why havelesswhen you can havemore?” Brandie Jean Palmer—provider of endless wine and purveyor of half-baked wisdom.

“Ladies,” a deeper voice interjected. The voice was attached to a man whose jeans were far too skinny, boots far too hipster, and a man bun that was far too coiffed. Corded leather bracelets wrapped around his wrists. He looked like the kind of man who moisturized and used beard balm.

If Cal had a skincare routine, it most likely consisted of dish soap and a decade-old gray washcloth.

“Is this a bachelorette party?” Man bun asked.

“Ooh!” BJ shouted. “Bachelorette party! We should go to Vegas!”

Beth pouted and stared into her fifth glass of wine. “My brother would kill me.”

“Well, we can kill him, and we can share a jail cell,” BJ slurred, clinking her glass with Beth’s.

“To murdering my brother and matching orange jumpsuits!” Beth yelled. Wine sloshed out of her glass as she thrust it in the air.

“If you’re gonna murder someone,” I said, teetering precariously from one foot to the other, “Lemme in on it. Nurses knowallthe good ways to kill people and get away with it.” I pressed my finger to my lips. “Shhh! Don’t tell.” I think I meant to whisper it, but it came out as more of a caterwaul.

Man-Bun wasn’t perturbed by our antics. Deciding that I was the closest to sober out of the three of us—which was still pretty damn far from sober—he made me his mark. Man-Bun stood behind me, planted his hands on my hips, and tried to help me start swaying to the beat of the folk-rock ska bluegrass band that blared through the speakers. The song was dreadful and made me wish that someone had crushed the dreams of the teenage musicians who created the auditory sin—telling them that music wasn’t a viable career and that they should, instead, become accountants.

Accountants were nice. Accountants were quiet. Accountants didn’t create ear felonies.

I didn’t have a chance to tell him to stop touching me. All the chaos and noise faded away when a menacing voice growled, “Get your fuckin’ hands off my girl.”

22

CALLUM

Red. All I saw was red. One of the other guys from the department had texted me about three girls raising hell at The Tipsy Goat. Apparently, Layla had a crazy side that was fueled by Beth Hale. What I didn’t expect to find when I pulled up to the curb in Layla’s car was Brandie Jean Palmer in the mix.

I had just made it onto the sidewalk when hipster Paul Bunyan made his move, grabbing Layla’s hips and pulling her against him. The desire to rip him limb from fucking limb coursed through my veins like a lethal drug when he tried to grind up against her ass.

The door bounced off the hinges and slammed as I stormed in. Layla’s back was to me, but the look on that prick’s face told me that he knew he fucked up.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off my girl,” I spat as I crossed the room in two quick strides. My leg was almost back to one hundred percent. A few more weeks of physical therapy, and I’d be cleared for full duty again. But I was ready to throw away the idea of ever leaving my desk if it meant I got to punch this fucker in the face.

Unfortunately, he was the type to act all big and bad, then piss himself at the first sign of trouble.

“Whoa, man—” He raised his hands in surrender. “Didn’t know she was taken.”

I stepped between him and Layla. Beth stumbled over and pulled her away. “Yeah, I guess it’d be pretty hard to look at her hand and see that my fuckin’ ring is on her finger. Guess it’s pretty hard to open your fuckin’ mouth andaskbefore you put your fuckin’ hands on her body.”

With each step I took, he backed up.The coward.I was itching for a fight. “S-Sorry, dude.” He was on the verge of tears, and I had yet to lay a finger on him.

“Dude?” I scoffed with a laugh as I yanked his wallet out of his pocket and glanced at his ID. “Get out of here, you piece of shit. And if I hear of you stirring up trouble in these parts, you’ll have more hell to pay than mommy and daddy can afford.” I gave him a once-over. “Tanner.”

Tanner Blake Allen, of 3301 Governors Drive, Chapel Hill, ran out the door with his tail between his legs.

Fuck me.I lifted my ball cap and ran my hand over my hair.

“Uh, sir?” It was the bartender who looked utterly terrified.

“Yeah?”

He pointed to the very drunk BJ, Layla, and Beth, who had exploded into fits of giggles. “Are they yours?”

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