“You kind of did. Last month I invited you to see a show and you said, ‘I’d rather cut my ears off.’”
His eyebrow creeps higher while I turn beet red. Brothers are the worst.
“I’m sure I didn’t.” Although that was probably an exact quote by Davis. It’s not that I don’t like live music, per se. It’s more that I prefer to sit at home in sweatpants, watching re-runs of Real Housewives. I like my glamour and excitement secondhand. My face throbs, reminding me of what happens when I go out.
“I’m pretty sure you did,” Davis counters. I wish the floor would open and swallow Davis. Or me. Both of us would also be an acceptable option. “Anyway,” he continues in the oblivious way older brothers can be, “since you’re here now, come and meet the rest of the guys.”
He grabs my arm, and I yelp in pain. Jumping back, I manage to knock my injured elbow into the table behind me. The beer glasses to tip and a bunch of people to shout in dismay.
“What the hell?”
“Are you all right?”
“Goddammit!”
A rush of cold beer spills down my back.
Laughter mixes with curses as Davis hauls me off the table, causing me to cry out in pain again. I cradle my arm against my body. Crap, it hurts. Tears spike behind my eyes.
“She spilled my fucking beer,” some drunk guy yells.
There’s a jostling and more cold liquid spills down my back and into my jeans. About the only thing that could make this evening worse would be for me to get my period. I close my eyes for a second and wait for my body to betray me. Nothing happens. I tell myself to be grateful for the small things in life.
“Are you okay?”
I flick my lids up to see Adam leaning over me.
Davis’s face appears in the periphery.
“Hey, did you hear me? She spilled our beers.”
“I’m—”
“Seriously, man, that was a twenty-dollar pitcher.”
Adam straightens quickly and slams his hand on the table. “Here’s your fucking twenty. Buy a pitcher and shut your pieholes before I shove the bills down your throat.”
“No need to be pissy about it, man.”
“I’m fine. Really.” I tug on Davis’s arm.
“Is there a problem here, Adam? Do you want me to kick these guys out?”
I look up to see an older man with straggly hair hanging down to his waist glaring at our group. A crowd of people stares in our direction.
Davis clears his throat. “There’s no problem, Mr. Hill. I slipped.”
The old man slaps Davis on the back. “Told you to call me Kenny.”
“Davis,” I say quietly but urgently. “I’m okay. Really. I’m going to go—”
“Kenny, this is Davis’s sister,” Adam interrupts. “She got a bunch of beer down her shirt. I have an extra one in my kit. Do you mind if we use your office so she can change?”
“No, no, of course not.” Kenny pulls a huge set of keys from his front pocket and slaps them in Adam’s hand. To the angry beer boys, he says, “You folks okay?”
“Yeah,” the one who Adam threatened concedes glumly.
“We’ll get you a new pitcher,” Kenny promises, hailing a waitress.