Page 43 of Hate You Up Close

“I mean, I can leave and Adam can call the cops to escort you out. Up to you,” I shrug, giving him an ultimatum.

Elliot slowly turns his head toward Adam, narrowing his eyes to little slits. I swear I hear a growl fall from his lips.

“You’re going to fucking pay for this, Adam,” he snaps.

“Oh really?” Adam scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest in amusement. “You should be thanking me right now, Elliot. Not threatening me.”

“This is the last time I step foot in this bar,” Elliot hisses through clenched teeth.

“We’ll see about that,” Adam chuckles sarcastically. “Besides, what the hell was I supposed to do?”

“She’s my fucking assistant,” he clips. “You couldn't have called anyone else?”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that?” Adam retorts, lifting his hands in the air. “You were the one who kept talking about a girl named Roxanne. I had no idea who to call, so I searched for her name. I obviously had no clue that she’s your assistant, and honestly, who the fuck cares if she is or not. It’s my responsibility to make sure you get home alive.”

“I don’t know,” Elliot sneers. “You could have called the contacts that sayMomorDad. Pretty fucking standard people in emergency situations.”

“You do realize you spend most of your nights at this verybar talking about how you want nothing to do with your family?”

My eyes dart between them as I watch the conversation unfold. At least Elliot is coherent, stringing together full sentences. His words are slurring together, and his eyes are glazed over, but he’s not as bad as I thought he would be when I saw him passed out on the bar.

“Fucking hell,” Elliot groans, gripping his forehead as if his head is pounding.

Not only is he drunk, but he’s clearly distressed. I know I shouldn't feel any sympathy for him, yet I can’t help but put myself in his shoes. When you’ve devoted your entire life to your career, having your assistant pick you up from a bar because you’re absolutely shitfaced has to be rock bottom.

“Come on, Elliot,” I say softly while reaching for his arm. “Let’s get you home.”

His nostrils flare as he pulls his arm away from my touch like I burned him.

“I’ll get an Uber,” he slurs, abruptly standing from the barstool.

His legs wobble, unable to support his weight as he stumbles into my body.

I toss out my arms, wrapping them around his trim waist to break his fall. I grunt, holding on to him tightly as the distinct smell of whiskey and leather overtakes me. My skin heats as I breathe him in.

God, why does he have to smell so good even when he’s drunk?

His hard body is pressed tightly against mine, and for a second, I don’t want to let him go. I lower my lips dangerously close to his ear and whisper. I don’t want to embarrass him more than he already is.

“Elliot, an Uber driver will take one look at you and declineyour request,” I mutter under my breath. “Just let me help you.”

I don’t know why I do it, but I lift one of my hands from his waist and to the nape of his neck and gently run my fingers through his soft hair.

I think I hear a small moan vibrate against my chest where his head rests, but I know it's just my imagination playing tricks on me.

“Let me help you,” I whisper, lazily massaging the back of his head. “For once in your life, let someone help you.”

He shakes his head as his arms wrap around my waist. His hands fist the back of my shirt, holding on to me as tightly as I am to him. He’s big in all of the places I’m small, fitting me like a perfect puzzle piece. I never want him to let go.

“Roxanne,” he rasps, sounding so broken. “Everything is so fucked up.I’msuch a fuck up. Why are you here?”

“Because I know you would do the same for me,” I whisper against the top of his head, thinking about how he picked me up in the rain. How he refused to let me walk home alone.

“Let’s go,” I repeat, resting my chin on his head.

He nods, burying his face deeper into my chest.

Everything about this moment feels so intimate. Too intimate. Adam watches us from behind the bar, his eyes glued to our tangled bodies.