Then I reach for what I need, the prescription bottle. Because caffeine won’t be enough, and I can’t let tonight end like our night in Chicago. But the flashing red-and-blue lights to my right tell me I won’t make it farther than the distance I’ve already gone.
As the officer approaches, I back away from the wall I was lovingly stroking seconds ago.
“Miss, did you paint this wall?”
I close my eyes and shake my head, futile gestures since the can is still in my possession.
“May I look inside your bag, please?”
Laughter comes without the accompanying smile. What would Griffin say if he saw me like this, ready to lose my lunch and a cop about to restrain me if I don’t dial down the hysteria? If he couldn’t handle me ruining our night with a debilitating headache, how would he handle this? He told me he was all in, but I never let him know what he was really in for. All I had to do was make it from point A to point B, to be there for him when he needed me, and instead… The hysteria morphs to tears. No one should have to handle this.
His hand rests on the cuffs at his belt.
“Those aren’t necessary,” I say. “I’ll go with you.”
He sighs, a look of resignation on his tired, aged face. “Follow me, then. The building owner has been on our case to find the person responsible for defacing his property. I gotta take you into the station.”
The tears flow freely, but I still try to swallow back the knot in my throat, the rising bile resulting from the growing headache and my realization of what a mess I still am. I wanted to be ready for the full deck, to be what he saw in me. How can I let him see this?
“Of course you do,” I choke out, knowing that with these words I’m also giving him my last semblance of hope.
We made the decision to walk away when things got too complicated. Well, it doesn’t get more complicated than this.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Griffin
“Come on. Let me buy you one drink. It’s your party after all.”
I check my phone. Ten-fifteen and no text or missed call. So I bite the bullet and shoot Maggie a text to make sure she’s still coming.
Looking forward to your arrival so I can take you home.
I set the phone on the bar to watch for her reply and decide to take Heather up on her offer.
“Aren’t the drinks already paid for?” I ask.
She offers a coy smile and shrugs.
“I guess one couldn’t hurt,” I say.
She drops two shot glasses on the bar and fills them to the rim with Jameson’s.
I raise a brow as she clinks my shooter and offers a “Cheers” before throwing hers back like it’s water.
“Impressive,” I say, following suit, my insides heating as the whiskey blazes a trail down my throat, chest, and stomach. She holds up the bottle, gesturing a second pour, and I shake my head. She’s not deterred.
“So, who’s taking you home tonight?”
Her tongue trails across her bottom lip as she fills our glasses again. This time she shoots without hesitation, no form of Cheers. And because my answer to her question is the one she doesn’t want, I respond by taking my shot instead.
“I don’t live far,” she says. “If you need a place to stay.”
She walks around the bar to join me on the paying side, bottle of Jameson’s still in her hand.
“Another shot?”
My eyes shift to the phone sitting next to me, the one the whiskey made me forget. No missed calls. No waiting texts.
Damn it, Maggie. All day I ignored the doubt, pushed it away because tonight was not only going to be the start of something for me. It was going to be the start of something for us. But ever since we came back from Chicago, she’s kept me at a safe distance all the while promising she’d be here.
“Gimme a second,” I say. I try her cell again. This time it goes right to voicemail. At the risk of looking desperate, because—fucking hell—at this point I am, I call the first number she ever gave me, Royal Grounds. The voice that answers is female but sounds much older than Maggie’s lilting tone.
“Royal Grounds. Can I help you?”
I need to know she’s okay before I let the truth sink in.
“Uh. Hi. Is Maggie working tonight?” I ask.
The woman inhales, a sharp sound I hear through the phone. “Oh. Yes, I mean. She was. She’s with Miles now. I’m sorry. That was sort of a roundabout way to answer your question. I guess it would have been easier to say, ‘No. Maggie’s not here. Can I take a message?’ I’m a little new at this. Sorry. Can I?”
I try to shake away the fog, but the whiskey fills every empty space inside me. It marinates with my words. “Can you what?”
“Take a message for when she gets back. Shouldn’t be long.”
My head droops, and I let out a long breath.
“No message,” I say before ending the call.
I nod at Heather and shift my eyes to my empty glass.
“One more,” I say and watch her pour. I don’t notice until I’ve drained the glass that she has slid off her bar stool and currently stands against mine.
“Now,” she says, inching closer. “Who’s taking you home tonight?”