Page 41 of Hate You Up Close

I wouldn't consider myself an overly affectionate person, but I’ve never wanted to run to someone and gather them in myarms more than I do right now. I’ve never felt the need to protect someone the way I do with him.

Elliot’s guard is completely down, his true skin utterly exposed. Gone is the polished, smooth-talking, arrogant Elliot, and all that’s left is a husk of his authentic self. Unwillingly, he’s laid himself bare out in the open, exposed and unarmed.

He looks less like a man and more like a shattered boy. Absolutely broken and desolate, begging for someone to notice. Desperate for someone to give a shit.

He’s the epitome of hopelessness. Lost and empty.

And that’s what causes the tear in my heart created by Elliot to rip even wider. He needs someone, and despite how much of a heartless dick he can be, tonight that someone is going to be me.

It feels impossible to pull my eyes away from Elliot, but the bartender waving his arm behind the counter finally catches my attention.

I force my feet from the invisible cement I’m standing in and walk towards him. I flash the bartender a soft, but sad smile as I approach.

“Hi, I’m Adam,” he smiles half-heartedly, extending his hand across the bar in greeting. “Thank you for coming,” he says awkwardly, his eyes darting down toward Elliot’s limp body.

“Thanks for calling me,” I say sincerely.

I exhale a shaky breath and slide onto the barstool next to Elliot. I nervously run my hands down my thighs, realizing I didn't change my clothes before I left. I was in too much of a hurry; the last thing on my mind was putting on an appropriate outfit. I just wanted to get to him.

At the very least, I should have grabbed a jacket. March is a hit or miss month in Texas when it comes to the weather, and tonight, it’s fucking cold.

Here I am, sitting next to my manager in a bar with no makeup on, wearing nothing but a thin pair of leggings and a spaghetti strap tank top with no bra on.

I should care more, but honestly, it’s not like he has any room to judge.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and lean closer to him.

“Elliot,” I whisper, placing my palm on his shoulder.

The heat from his skin radiates through his cotton shirt, sending a warm buzz through my veins.

“Wake up,” I give his shoulder a light shake. “It’s time to go home.”

“Mmmm,” he groans, turning his head and burying his beautiful face in his arms.

I splay my fingers against his prominent bicep, squeezing gently while giving him another push.

“Elliot, it’s Roxy,” I say a little louder. “Let’s get you home.”

His lips tilt up in a dazed smile that has my stomach spinning.

“R-Roxanne?” he mumbles sluggishly.

God. That sleepy smile makes me feel things that I shouldn't.

Also, why the hell am I starting to not hate that he calls me Roxanne? Usually, I despise it when people call me by my full name.

“Yes, it’s Roxanne,” I answer, mindlessly running my palm up and down along the length of his arm. Heat swirls low in my belly the longer I caress him. “I’m here to help you. Can you stand up?”

He groans again.

“Elliot,” I push, cupping the back of his neck and grazing my fingers along his hairline. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I think he’s sleep-talking because his next words have my ovaries bursting.

“Come here, Roxanne. I-I need you,” he slurs with his eyes closed. I try to not take his words to heart because he’s basically unconscious, in a dreamlike state.

My insides heat at his drunken words. I know he’s only saying this because he’s intoxicated, but I can’t help but wonder how it would feel if he said those words to me completely sober.