I rolled my eyes and poured the hot coffee into a mug and set it before him. “Drink that, Chad,” I said. “Sober up.”
He sank onto the barstool, wobbling slightly despite sitting, but he wrapped his fingers around the mug. “No cream?”
I shook my head, crossing my arms over my chest. “Don’t have any.”
“Sugar?”
“Nope.”
“Ugh,” he gurgled, but brought the mug to his lips. “Fuck,” he hissed. “That’s hot!” He set it back on the bar, digging in his pocket for a few seconds before pulling out a small, clear plastic bag filled with a fine white powder. “Needs sugar,” he said, dumping half the contents into the cup.
“Nope,” I snapped, reaching for the cup. “I can handle a drunk Chad but this is where I draw the line. Get the fuck out.” My hand on the mug, I tried to pull it away from him but he clamped his hand on my wrist.
“Let go,” he said, the first clear words he’d uttered.
“Get your hand off of me.” I tried like hell to keep my face a mask of calm.
He tightened his grip, and my mask broke as I yelped.
“Take a drink,” he said.
“No.”
“Take a drink, Echo,” he used the same tone he had in our past—that suggestive, demanding tone that had me giving in when we were together. Anything…I would’ve done anything to numb the pain back then. But I wasn’t that girl anymore. “You know you want to,” he said. “You act like you’re better than me, but you’re not. You’re a fucking washed up bartender with no family.”
I jerked my arm, trying to break his grasp. He only tightened his hold, so hard my skin burned.
“Take. A. Drink.” His eyes were wholly crazed now, fueled by liquor and drugs and the anger at not being able to control me.
I gritted my teeth, narrowing my gaze at him. “You have two seconds to release me.”
“Or what?”
“One,” I warned.
He laughed.
“Two.”
He twisted my arm, the tendons popping from the pressure.
I grabbed the mug with my free hand and brought it toward my lips.
Then I sloshed the contents right in his face.
He instantly let go, his hands flying to his face as he hissed.
You stupid bitch!” he screamed, knocking over the barstool as he scrambled back.
I gripped the mug above me, prepared to hit him over the head if he so much as stepped a toe near me.
“Get. Out.” The demand was spoken through clenched teeth, my entire body shaking now. The skin on my wrist burned from where he’d gripped and twisted my arm.
“You’ll pay for that you little cunt!” He stormed toward the bar like he was prepared to leap over it.
I raised the cup higher, ready to swing.
The entrance door swung open, two of Chad’s friends instantly sprinting to him. They locked each of his arms down, holding him in place.
“Get off me!” he yelled, struggling against the two.
“Get him out of here!” I screamed.
“Echo?” Sawyer’s voice broke over the shouts as he ran around the bar. “What the hell is going on?” he asked once he was at my side.
Chad’s manic laughter stopped any answer I might’ve given. “Run, man,” he said, eyes on Sawyer. “You need to run away from that piece of ass as far as you can.”
Sawyer’s jaw clenched and he took a step but I stopped him with a hand on his chest.
Chad turned his focus to me, no longer struggling against his friends. “She’s cursed,” he said, practically spitting the words. “Everyone who ever loves her either dies or ends up like me, fucking out of their mind addicted. She’s to blame. I was normal until I fucked her!”
The words hit their target on my soul, each one a punch hard enough to crack.
I pushed through the pain, focusing on his friends. “Get him out here,” I said, my voice broken. “The next time he steps in this bar, I call the cops.”
The guys nodded, dragging Chad back and back until they were out the door. I sprinted around the bar and locked the door with trembling fingers. My mind reeling, my body shaking, my heart fucking breaking.
Because Chad may have been high out of his mind—he may have been drunk too—but he’d been right about me. There were three gravestones ten miles away to prove it.
“Echo,” Sawyer said, his voice like a lightning strike in the now quiet bar.
I spun around, the tears unstoppable as they rolled down my cheeks. The sight of him—sober at two a.m., his perfect polo shirt unwrinkled, his khakis just as crisp—I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t stomach the idea of tainting him. Cursing him. Ruining something so good and wonderful.
“You need to leave,” I said, my heart splitting with my words.
“What?” Sawyer came around the bar, his arms reaching for me. I took a step back, and he halted. “Echo, tell me what happened. Talk to me—”