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The air catches in my lungs, and the heavy highball glass slips from my hand. Trey snatches it midair, keeping it from shattering on the bar.

“How dare you,” I seethe. Doesn’t matter that I just had that same thought. He can’t say that shit. “I've had a bad fucking day, okay?”

“Yeah, I know, Mess. I know. But this isn't how you handle it. Getting piss-ass drunk and making a fool out of yourself is not going to help anything.”

“Then what is?” Tilting my face to ceiling, I blink rapidly, attempting to keep the building tears at bay.

“Honestly, I don't know, but not this. Come on, let's get you upstairs. You're better than this, Randi. I know it’s hard right now, but you're stronger than you realize. You'll get through.”

“How are you so sure?” I whisper.

“Because even though you hit like a girl—” Pursing my lips, I shoot him a glare, causing him to chuckle and a bit of the normal brightness to shine through his eyes. “—you're pretty badass.”

“I am.”

“I know. That's what I just said. Anyone who's done what you've done in your life, all that you've accomplished on your own, has to be. Remember who you are, Randi. Remember what you've been through to get here.”

Sliding my gaze back to the mirror behind the bar, I focus on my own reflection. He's right. Why the hell am I sitting here having a damn pity party—and alone at that. I've made it this far in life, accomplished so much with very little; why do I think this is the one thing that will take me down?

The reflection tilts its head as I do. My slightly frizzy dark hair swooshes along my back. Fuck, I look like hell.

“Why does it feel like we're always having this conversation?” Palms to the bar, I use it for balance as I slide off the stool, giving myself a second to steady my footing. “It must be exhausting always having to pull my shit together.”

“That's where you're wrong. I know you're new at this friends thing, but I'm not. I can't tell you how many times Tank's pulled my head out of my own ass or slapped me straight. That's what friends do for each other. They’re there when we fall.”

“So which are we? Friends or more?”

Peering down, Trey smiles. “Why do you think they're mutually exclusive?” His eyes leave mine to scan the room. “Elevator’s waiting. Come on, Mess.”

The guys form a tight grouping around me as we march to the elevator. Between the four bodies, I bounce around like a damn pinball, but somehow they keep me upright. The moment we step inside the elevator, the doors close and we zoom upward. “Oh, hey, and one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“Don't mention to Sarah how I said you hit like girl. She'll beat me up for sure.”

I snort, then slam my hand over my nose and mouth to keep the sound from happening again. Tears from laughter prick the corners of my eyes, dripping down my cheeks as I tilt my face to see his.

“You think I'm kidding,” he groans.

The elevator slides to a halt, the movement throwing off my equilibrium and making me sway into Trey's hard chest. Thin smile lines spread from the corners of his eyes with his smile. “If you wanted a ride, all you had to do was ask.”

Before I can respond, my feet leave the ground and his firm chest is pressed against my shoulder as he carries me out of the elevator bride style. Tucking my chin, I keep my face hidden from him so he doesn't see me smiling. In a few short steps, we're maneuvering through the door.

“Here,” Trey says like he's out of breath as he slowly lowers me to the ground. The moment our eyes lock, the rest of the team fades to the background. Maybe it's the alcohol or not giving a shit anymore about what any of them think, but something fuels me to press up to my tiptoes. Slowly he lowers, his lips a hairbreadth from mine.

“Knock it off, you two,” T says, sounding completely exasperated.

Trey clears his throat and straightens. With a huff, I whirl around, ready to tell T off, but the room keeps going.

Fuck.

“Get her in the shower, Benson.” Around me, the team snickers. “Alone,” T bellows. “We need to sober her up.”

“Where's the fun in that?” I giggle. Shit, I'm drunk. Clearing my throat, I shake out my hands, attempting to regain some composure. “Can someone please order me a cheeseburger with fries? And a Coke. Oh, and a cake. A big fucking cake that says ‘worst day ever.’”

Before I attempt a step on my own, I slide one foot out of a pump and then the other, leaving the thousand-dollar shoes abandoned in the middle of the suite’s living room.

“You stay there,” I say to the shoes, pointing at them like they’re a dog.