Chapter Thirteen
Jane
“What the hell?” I can’t help but cry out when a hand clamps over my arm like a vice. I try to yank myself away, but it’s no use. He’s got a good grip and has no intention of letting go that easy. My eyes go from his hand up to his face, and I immediately realize who I’m looking at, the realization sending a jolt of anger through me. Which is probably why my next question comes out as rude as I mean it to be. “Do you live at this bar?”
He gives me one of the sleaziest grins I’ve ever seen. “I knew if I hung out here long enough, I’d run into you again. Nobody does what you did to me last night.” He squeezes just enough to make me wince. I open my mouth to tell him off, only I’m not fast enough.
Because Anthony is here.
“Get your hands off her, asshole!”
He lunges for the guy, grabbing him by the collar with both hands, and throwing him to the floor. The guy is so surprised, he lets go of my arm in time to avoid taking me down with him. I don’t blame him. I’m in a bit of shock myself. Not from the idiot’s behavior, but from the fact that Anthony has gotten physical with a complete stranger.
Over me.
“What the fuck is your problem?” The moron tries to get to his feet, but Anthony does the job for him, hauling the guy to his feet and slamming him into the bar. I wince as the bar rail catches the guy in the middle of his back, but it’s more a reflex than sympathy.
“My problem, jackass, is when guys think they can touch women without permission.” Anthony’s right hand cocks back, balls into a fist, then slams home against the stranger’s jaw with a solid crack I can hear even above the music.
And just like that, all eyes are on us, and no one is moving to stop them.
“Anthony! No!”
I want him to stop, need him to. He doesn’t need something like this to get him into trouble, not when things are going so well for him. His father won’t be happy if Anthony gets into trouble, and I definitely don’t want to be the reason for it. As attracted as I am to Anthony, I need this job more than I need a crush on my boss.
He doesn’t hear me. He’s too busy splitting the guy’s lip with a quick jab. He takes a third swing, a roundhouse, which the guy easily ducks. Anthony’s momentum throws him off-balance just long enough for the stranger to turn, grab the first thing his hand closes over—which happens to be a bottle the bartender left sitting there as the fight took his attention—and swing it.
“No!” I scream, trying to warn Anthony in time for him to get out of the way, but it’s too late. The bottle breaks over his head, sending shards of glass flying. He staggers, then falls against the bar.
Fuck!
Instead of taking advantage of the situation, the idiot runs out of the bar. I’m thankful for his flight or fight instinct telling him that the smartest thing to do is run because I wouldn’t have been able to stop him if he’d gone after Anthony right then. But since he runs, I’m able to go immediately to Anthony’s side, torn between wanting to yell at him for being so stupid and wanting to thank him for doing what no one else has ever done for me.
He defended me, so concern wins out.
“Are you all right?” I take his face in my hands and look at his head as his dazed expression peers up at me. His hair is soaked with bourbon—ironic since he was drinking it only a minute ago—and a trickle of blood starts running down his temple.
Shit.
“Where’d he go?” His speech is a little slurred.
Perfect. What if he has a head injury now? I know basic first aid, like how to make a butterfly bandage when you don’t have insurance. Diagnosing skull fractures isn’t in my wheelhouse.
“You might have a concussion,” I fret. “I need to get you to the hospital.”
“No! No way. Do you know the shit I’ll get into?” he mumbles.
I scowl at him and put on my stern face. “Do you know what’ll happen if you don’t get checked out? You might need stitches, at the very least.” I press a wad of napkins against his head, and they turn red as if by magic. I remind myself that head wounds always bleed more and it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s bad. “Come on, Anthony. No arguments.”
***
“It’s a superficial injury,” the doctor explains. “He doesn’t even need stitches, but he’ll need something for the pain.”
“And there’s no concussion?” I ask, eyes on the man lying on the gurney. There’s blood on his shirt. All because of me.
Things between us just keep getting better and better.
“That, we can’t be sure of yet. He’ll need somebody with him who can watch for signs of a concussion.” The doctor glances over at me from the chart he’s reviewing and suddenly seems to realize that I’m not a family member. “Does he have somebody at home who can do that for him?”
“I don’t know.” I look at Anthony and hope I’m not crossing a line into territory that’s too personal. “Do you?”
He shrugs. “Not really.”
Oh, fabulous. The man might have a concussion because of me, and there’s nobody home to watch over him. At least he’s stopped slurring his words, and he can focus his eyes on me.
“What do I need to look for?” I ask the doctor before I give it any thought. I can’t take Anthony to his father’s, for sure. I wouldn’t even know where to go, and besides, what will happen if he finds out why his son got in a fight? I’d lose my job and Anthony might, too. I can’t do that to him. Not when all this is my fault.
After a glance at Anthony, who nods his consent, the doctor tells me, “Make sure he doesn’t start throwing up. Try to talk to him as much as possible.”
“Do I have to keep him awake? I always heard you have to keep concussion patients awake.”
“It should be all right if he sleeps. Just make sure his breathing stays regular.”
Right.
I sigh. It’s going to be a very long night. A nurse hands over a bottle of painkillers, and before I know it Anthony and I are in a taxi and we’re on the way to my apartment. My apartment! Of all places. I don’t want him to see it. What’ll he think of me? Then again, he’s slumped against the door of the cab, in Happy Land. Between the head injury and Percocet, though, I don’t think he’s really going to notice much of anything. I’m sure that bourbon isn’t mixing well with it. At least he only had time to drink one.
Still, I can’t help the feeling of my heart in my throat as we walk down the hallway and I unlock my door. Anthony has never been here, and I’m almost nauseous thinking about how he sees things.
When a kid’s in foster care and they’re moving from one home to another, most of the time, they’re given a garbage bag to carry the few things that are actually theirs. It’s not done to be mean or anything like that, but it’s just the most practical thing. It doesn’t do wonders for our self-esteem, I’ll tell you that. Which is why I’m actually not thinking about Anthony’s health for the moment. My nerves are too jittery for that.
If he notices the size, he doesn’t mention it. He barely manages to stay on his feet long enough to hit the futon. I stand back, feeling helpless as my attention comes back to Anthony. What am I supposed to do with him? Sure, it’s kind of funny seeing him so undone. He’s always in control, looking good, charming my panties off. Figuratively, anyway. Now, he’s practically drooling.
“Here. Let’s get your shoes off.” I sit on the edge of the futon and lift his feet, one at a time, pulling off the fancy leather loafers.
“You’re so nice.” His voice isn’t very strong, but it’s clear enough that I don’t have to strain to understand him.
“Um…thanks? I try.” I put his shoes on the floor. “Let’s take your coat off next. The apartment might be small, but the heat works well.”
I help him sit up and slide the coat over his shoulders. We’re face-to-face, nearly touching. I try to ignore that fact even as it’s all I can think of.
He doesn’t ignore it, however. He leans closer and plants a slightly awkward and lingering kiss on my unsuspecting lips. My eyes fly open in shock, but I don’t pull back. That’s what I don’t do. I tell myself it’s because I’m so surprised, but deep down inside I know better. I’d been hoping for another kiss from the moment that first one ended.
When the kiss ends, he pulls back and looks deep into my eyes. “I really like you, Jane.”
“You—you do?” I stutter. “For real?”
He nods, smiling broadly. I wonder for a moment if I’m seeing a glimpse of who Anthony must have been before all of this. Before his dad started treating him like he can’t do anything right.
“You’re special.” He flicks a chunk of hair and then taps the end of my nose. “I’m not just saying that, either. You really are.”
Wow, those drugs are really lowering his inhibitions.
“Oh. Thank you, I guess.” My head’s spinning. Me? I’m special? There’s nothing special about me, not a single thing. And for somebody like him, somebody who’s seen the world, to tell me he thinks that about me? No. He can’t mean it. It’s the drugs talking.
But he meant that kiss. That’s one thing I know for sure. I could feel it.
I’m about to tell him that I like him, too, but I’m too late. He promptly sinks back onto the futon, stretched full out, and goes out like a light. As the tension goes out of his face, I’m struck by the innocence there. I lean toward him and brush some hair off his forehead.
“Terrific,” I whisper. “Now what do I do?”
What I do is quietly change my clothes in the bathroom, then make a bed for myself on the little bit of floor space available to me. Only I don’t sleep. How can I? He needs me.
I spend the night watching TV at low volume, checking on his breathing every twenty minutes or so—when he’s not snoring, that is, which he does from time to time. It’s a struggle to keep my eyes open the longer the night winds on, but I stay awake for his sake until the sun begins to rise. I figure enough time has passed by then to be somewhat confident that he’s okay. I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow.
When I wake up two hours later, I’m alone. The only sign that I didn’t dream it all is the lingering scent of his cologne in the air, mixed with the smell of bourbon.