p; The first beer barely quenched her thirst, and over the next hour, she drank another--possibly two--then sat and watched the room spin while Easton went off to find food, and Reece invited Amanda out onto the floor.
Jenna watched them, her jaw aching until she realized she was clenching her teeth and forced herself to relax.
What the hell was wrong with her? Amanda loved to dance, and Easton didn't know the steps. Of course she wanted to dance with Reece.
"How long have you two been going out?" Easton asked, returning to the table with a fresh basket of fries and a plate of chicken fried steak.
"What? Oh, no. We're just friend. Best friends."
"Really? I just assumed--"
"Friends," she said firmly, pulling her hand back instead of grabbing some fries. Suddenly, her stomach felt a little too jumpy for food. Instead, she snatched up the whiskey from one of the four Two-Steps--beer with a whiskey chaser--that Easton had ordered after the last round of beer. She slammed back the whiskey, ignoring the beer. She didn't need the extra dose of alcohol--Lord knew she was buzzed enough already. But she wanted it. Wanted to be numb. Anesthetized. Wanted to not feel whatever she was feeling. The sweet prickle of sensation when Reece touched her. The tight curl of jealousy when he held Amanda.
It had to be melancholy. A departure-induced yearning that had infiltrated her consciousness. Because even though she was excited about her job, she also didn't want to leave. Or, more accurately, she didn't want to leave Reece.
She sat bolt upright as the impact of the errant thought hit her. Reece?
No, no, no. Reece and Brent. She voiced the words clearly in her head, because right then, correcting her unspoken mistake was the most important thing in the world. Reece. And. Brent.
That's what she'd meant, of course. Her thoughts were all muddled. She just didn't want to leave her friends and go off alone to the big city. But at the same time, she did. The job was a dream, and it's not like she'd stay away forever.
Would she?
She frowned, her eyes on Reece as she considered. She'd always thought that she'd get experience elsewhere, then come back to Austin. But why? She wanted to plan large-scale events, and didn't that mean that Los Angeles was her target market?
Maybe, she thought, as Reece dipped Amanda. But maybe there were reasons to come back, too.
Mentally, she groaned. Her thoughts were going in circles. So much so that she didn't even notice when Easton cut in, pulling Amanda into his arms. Moments later, Reece was beside Jenna, tugging her to her feet.
"You're fading, kid. I should get you home."
The band finished the song, and Reece raised his hand to call Amanda and Easton over to say goodbye. But then the music started up again, probably from the jukebox. Not the fast rhythm of a Texas two-step, but the easy melody of a slow dance. "Wait," she said, squeezing his hand and urging him onto the floor. "I love this song."
"You need--"
But she didn't let him finish. She pressed against him, her arms going around his neck, her cheek tucked in against his shoulder. With a sigh, she breathed in the scent of him, all musk and male and beer.
"Jenna--" He cut himself off, his voice tight, as if her name were ice and about to crack.
"Mmm?" She snuggled closer, a warm glow filling her, and after a moment, his arms tightened around her, pulling her closer until she could feel every inch of his tight, hard muscles as they swayed in time with the strains of George Strait's The Chair. And for one moment--one blissful, wonderful, amazing moment--the entire world seemed perfect.
Then he shifted and reality crashed around her again. "Jenna." He seemed to be choking on her name. She looked up, confused, and saw a mixture of determination and fluster in the lines of his face. The song wasn't quite over, but he pushed her away. "We need to get you home."
"No, I--"
"Have a huge day tomorrow and need sleep." He hooked a finger under her chin, and she saw steely determination etched on his face. "You're wasted, kiddo."
"I am." The words felt like they were oozing out of her. "But it's okay." She smiled up at him. "You're here to take care of me."
His throat moved as he swallowed. "Hell yeah, I am. Come on," he added, leading her off the dance floor. "You need sleep and aspirin and water. You don't want to drive all the way to Van Horn tomorrow with the monster of all hangovers."
"It may be too late for that," she said, as the room did a very unpleasant tilting thing. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"Bathroom," he said, and started leading her there. She grabbed his arm, struggling to stay upright, because the floor had started rolling now. Her stomach, however, had settled.
"Actually, I want to go home," she said, because the idea of kneeling on the floor in a public bathroom and puking up her guts sounded miserable. "I think it'll pass."
"You're sure?" He peered at her, and she felt a bit like a ticking bomb. "You're not going to barf in the truck, are you?"