Page 21 of Rowdy Boy
I don’t have time to linger, though. I adjust the shirt collar, throw my cap into the Jeep, and offer them both a grateful smile.
“Wait. Before you go in there…” Rhett starts, looking down at his hands before lifting his head to meet my gaze. “I’m sorry if I got too worked up just now. But you’ve gotta break this cycle, bro. I can only assume that whatever happened tonight was because of Joe. Next time that happens, you come to me, okay? I don’t care what time it is. If he does something or says something to you… you come to me. I can’t promise I’ll be able to fix it, but together we can get through it. I’m here for you, Jake. Always.”
My eyes prickle with emotions I don’t have time to feel. I don’t have the words to express how grateful I am to have the pair of them in my corner, so instead of replying, I sling an arm around each of them and pull them close.
We huddle together in the back of the parking lot, our heads bowed low as we silently dream of days when it won’t feel so hard. There’s a boundlessness to being on the brink of adulthood with no fucking idea about what comes next. But Rhett’s right; I can get through this—I can get through anything—if we’re together. That’ll have to be enough for now.
“Go,” Tori finally urges, bursting the blissful bubble of hope I’d allowed myself to exist in for the last ten seconds.
I nod appreciatively but don’t bother saying goodbye. I can’t hesitate—if I don’t walk away from them and get in there, I might as well get back in my Jeep and throw up both middle fingers as I drive out of the lot.
We can do anything together. But right now, I have to do this alone.
Chapter 10
Mydadignoredmewhen I slipped into the private dining room, but it was clear that the empty chair smack in the middle of the table was intended for me. I’m seated between my brother’s fiancée Ashleigh and some middle-aged man sweating through his suit.
Joe hasn’t even glanced my way, and that sets me on edge.
I can barely stomach the bruschetta that’s getting soggy on my plate. There’s conversation happening all around me, but I can’t focus on anything anyone’s saying. It’s unlike him not to strike hard and fast when he has an open shot like this. I’m second-guessing every breath I take as he continues to ignore me.
A server sets a highball glass in front of me and straightens. “Your drink, sir.”
“Oh, no. I didn’t order…”
He cuts me off. “Compliments of Mr. Whitely.”
My head snaps up to the head of the table. His watery eyes are on me—finally—as he cradles his own drink in his hand. His words are docile in a way that feels dangerous. If I wasn’t straining to hear them, I might miss them entirely.
“Drink up, sonny. There’s more where that came from.”
He raises his own drink in my direction, then knocks it back, sets it down, and refocuses on the conversation between the two men seated on his left.
My eyes stay glued to where he sits; what the hell is going on? Sure, Joe doesn’t monitor my drinking at home, but he cares deeply about what other people think, especially the powerful men seated around this table.
What is he playing at?
“Sir.”
The server’s back already—hovering over my right shoulder. I crane my neck to explain that I’m not old enough to drink. But when I open my mouth to speak, I notice the single highball glass on the tray he’s holding.
“I’ve been instructed to replace your drink as soon as that one is gone.”
I gape, then slam my mouth shut as dread ripples through me. I stare at the glass in front of me, then up at the server, then back at the glass again. It’s filled to the brim, practically overflowing, with a slice of lime floating precariously on the crested surface.
My stomach turns as my brain frantically grapples with how to handle this. Do I refuse the drink and make the server just stand there? Do I make a scene and walk out?
I don’t have it in me to push back. Not right now. Not like this. He wins. He fucking wins again. I resign myself to the fact that I lost before I even knew I was in the game.
I reach for the highball glass and drain it, then slam it down on the table when it’s empty. The gin burns down my throat and sets my esophagus on fire. I wince but refuse to let the cough that’s threatening to spill out escape from my chest.
He can watch me struggle. But I won’t let him see me fall.
I had to steady myself on the dining chairs around the long table to make it this far. Now I’ve got to figure out how to get from the table to the door that leads into the main dining room.
It feels like I’m slogging through a quagmire. Each step requires a deliberate, concerted effort. I’m struggling to put one foot in front of the other—to remember all the little details that allow a person to walk. Like propelling my body forward, for example. And lifting my back foot when I want to shift my weight to the front foot.
“Is he okay?” someone asks. It’s a female voice, but not one I really recognize. I intend to blink and focus my eyes, but my brain has other ideas. I don’t know how long I keep my lids closed before I remember to open them, but passing out here is not an option.