“You’re Jake Birch!” A guy standing right outside the bar grins at me and claps my shoulder. “Holy shit!”
I put a hand up to stop him. “I’m sorry, man. I can’t right now.”
I walk down the sidewalk with no idea where I’m going, my muscles tense with the urge to lash out. I need to hit something—pound it into oblivion to work out the rage inside me.
Why the fuck did Tuck mention my mother in front of Miranda? He knows me well enough to know what a hot button it is.
I stop walking and cover my face with my hands. What if he’s planning to try to get with her? He wouldn’t do that, would he? He knows I like her. He’s my teammate. My right winger.
He better not fucking try it, or it’ll be his face I pound into oblivion. I know it’s unlikely because he’s happily married, but right now I’d take any excuse to kick his ass.
It’s so cold I can see my breath, and I pull my flannel around me to warm up. It’s been a long time since I felt this uncontrollable anger. I have to flush away all thoughts of my family. The only things that help when I get this way are destroying something, running about five miles at my top speed or getting falling-down drunk.
The answer appears before me in the form of a flashing neon sign for a bar. I pull my hat down to cover my face as much as possible. When I open the bar’s front door I find a dark, crowded dive. Perfect.
Miranda
I stayed ahead all night, cleaning up after myself so I didn’t have any work left after closing time. As soon as the last patrons clear out, I leave Lucky’s, locking the door behind me.
I’m beat. Sleeping in is going to feel so great. It was a good night for tips, though, which makes the exhaustion worth it. Paige’s birthday is coming up and I want to get her something nice.
Not far from Lucky’s, I move from the sidewalk to the road to avoid a bouncer throwing a rowdy customer out of another bar.
“I’m going!” a man yells in a belligerent tone. “Fuck you.”
“Fuck me?” The bouncer steps closer to the stumbling man. “You want some, asshole?”
“I want it all,” the man slurs. “Even wasted I’ll kick your chubby ass.”
I know that voice. I look closer and see it’s Jake about to get into a fistfight with a bouncer. Before I have time to think about it, I rush in between the two men.
“Hey,” I say to Jake.
“Miranda?” He squints at me. “Or is it Riranda?”
“It’s Miranda. You’re wasted.”
He gives me a goofy grin. “Kinda.”
I turn to the bouncer. “I’ll take him home.”
The man just glares at us.
“You must be new here,” I say shortly. “You have to let stuff roll off when people are drunk or you’ll be getting in fights every night.”
“Is that right?” His voice is loaded with sarcasm.
“Yeah, it is. Go ask your bartender.”
Jake laughs at the bouncer like it was the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Oh, she told you, bish! I knew you were more balls than dick.”
The bouncer scowls and I wrap my arm around Jake’s waist.
“All right, Jake. Let’s not invite trouble, okay?”
We walk away from the bar and Jake puts an arm around my shoulders.
“I like you feeling me up, Riranda,” he says. I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he speaks.
“This is me trying to keep you from falling on your face. I’m not sure why, though.”
“It’s ’cause you like me.”
I mumble my disagreement and reach up a hand to hail a cab. When a driver cruises to a stop, I open the backseat door, line Jake up and then shove him inside.
“She wants me bad,” he says to the driver as I slide in next to him and close the door.
“The Dupont,” I tell the driver.
“I need a drink,” Jake says, giving me a serious look.
“That is the last thing you need, actually.”
“Why’s this car moving?”
“We’re taking a cab to the Dupont. I’ll make sure you get back to your room okay.”
“You’re so nice.”
I laugh at that. “You don’t think so when you’re sober.”
“Yeah I do. And you’re pretty.”
I’m not thanking him for that like it was an actual compliment. He can’t even pronounce my name right now.
“Dudes hit on you at that bar, don’t they?”
I shrug. “I’m kind of a pro at shutting them down.”
“Damn straight.”
The cab stops in front of the Dupont and I reach into my purse for some cash.
“Get my wallet,” Jake says, leaning forward in the car. “It’s next to my ass.”
Jesus. The guy is rip-roaring drunk.
“I’ve got it,” I say, passing the driver a twenty, waiting for my change.
“I will repay you with…sexual flavors, Riranda,” Jake says.
I roll my eyes and reach for his flannel, hauling him out of the cab.
“We need your room key,” I tell him.
He reaches for his back pocket and misses it by a lot. His second attempt is worse. I have to guide his hand to the pocket.
When he draws out his wallet, I open it and take out his key card. I don’t want to be seen by any of the hotel staff, so I lead him around to a side entrance and scan the card at the door.