I pushed my shades on top of my head, just in time for Hansen to roughly grab my arm and yank me up.
He reached down and snatched my cover-up from beside me. “Put that on. Now,” he clipped in my ear.
I complied, because even in my drunkenness, I could see the danger in his eyes. My eyes landed on Arianne, who was now standing with Jagger, his hand circling her wrist. She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. Crazy bitch.
After I had yanked my floaty kaftan over my head, Hansen grabbed my arm and proceeded to drag me through the throngs of people and out of through the fancy hallway of whoever’s mansion it was we were attending the party.
“Hansen,” I started as he stopped me in front of an SUV.
He turned his head from the door, which he was opening for me. “Not a fuckin’ word,” he clipped, his voice colder than I’d ever heard it. “Get in the fuckin’ car, Macy,” he ordered.
I complied, again, out of self-preservation.
He rounded the car and screeched out of the driveway in silence. I fiddled with the tassels on my kaftan. I had switched to water not long ago but was still feeling pretty buzzed.
“You eaten today?” he said finally, his voice tightened.
“Do strawberry daiquiris count?” I asked.
Hansen’s eyes cut to me. “What the fuck do you think?”
“Well, I’m not sure of their actual ingredients, but since they taste remarkably like strawberries I’m guessing maybe… since fruit counts as food,” I rambled.
My eyes landed on Hansen. I was guessing he was expecting a no. He didn’t say anything more, just directed us to a drive through and promptly ordered.
“Eat,” he commanded, thrusting the greasy bag at me.
Suddenly, I was ravenous and inhaled the burger and fries that it contained.
Once I’d finished, I realized the air in the cab was humming. That may be because the food had done its job to soak up the alcohol swirling around in my stomach.
“You’re mad,” I observed.
Hansen’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. I noticed his knuckles were turning white.
“Mad, was about six hours ago, right after I realized you were whole and safe. After finding you half naked, half wasted, sprawled on a sun lounger while greasy fuckers glared at you, I’m fuckin’ furious,” he muttered.
With his presence and the grim reality of soberness, came pain. Came the truth. The bitter, ugly truth that I was trying to escape.
“I can explain,” I started in a weak voice.
“Don’t wanna hear it,” he cut me off. “We’ll talk when you’ve slept it off. When you’re not coasting off a fuckin’ two-day bender,” he clipped in disgust.
I flinched at his tone and turned my head. I was thankful, not for his anger but for the respite. At least now I could keep running for a little longer.
I awoke dying. Or at the very least suffering from some horrible brain-eating virus. I thought a moment. Nope. Just hungover. Very hungover. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my body to lapse back into unconsciousness until I was able to physically handle the pain. It didn’t work. I lay very still, trying to get my bearings and handle the pain I put myself through.
I opened my eyes and saw I was in a familiar room. Hansen’s room. Events came rushing back. That night at Arianne’s—ignoring his calls. The next morning—how angry he was. Then my brilliant decision to go to a pool party and continue drinking. Instead of sober up and explain myself to Hansen. I couldn’t even remember getting to bed, least getting changed into the tee I was wearing.
There was a glass of water and two aspirin beside the bed. He couldn’t hate me that much. I sucked down the water and swallowed the aspirin.
“Always helped mom,” a quiet voice declared.
I jumped, which wasn’t the best idea for my delicate head. Hansen sat in the corner, on an old armchair, his elbows resting on his knees.
“What?” I croaked, confused, and slightly hurt at the empty look in his eyes.
He nodded to the glass. “Two aspirin and water… helped her shake off the worst of it. Usually, so she could stomach her morning drink,” he clarified. “Learned that at ten years old, to put those there,” he continued. “That was, of course, after I dragged her to bed.”
His heartbreaking words began to sink in. “Your mom was—”
“An alcoholic,” he finished bitterly. “Yep. Most of my memories of her were when she had a drink in her hand, or when she was passed out clutching the bottle,” he explained without emotion.
It all sunk in. Hansen was always at the bar, or sitting at the club. He watched, joked with his brothers, stared at me, but he never drank. Might have a beer every now and then, but never more than two.
“Hansen—” I tried to speak, sitting up.
“Died when I was seventeen,” he cut me off again. “Plowed her car into a power pole. Lucky it was only herself she killed, not some innocent family. Lucky I turned eighteen the next day, so I didn’t end up in the system. So I could enlist,” he carried on.
My heart hurt, no bled with his words.
“Don’t begrudge you, you want to let loose… have beers… have fun,” he continued. “But when you decide to take off with no word, have me picturing your lifeless body in a ditch somewhere, only to find you sprawled at some McMansion in a getup that barely covers your pussy? That shit is not fucking okay,” he said quietly. Just because he didn’t yell didn’t mean I didn’t feel the depth of his anger.
I pushed off the bed shakily and made my way over to him. His jaw was hard as he watched me approach.
“I can explain,” I cooed, standing in front of him, not sure if I should touch.
“Yeah, so could she. Don’t have time to listen to excuses now, babe. Should’ve been at the club an hour ago. Been waiting for you to wake up. Make sure you were okay with my own two eyes,” he said coldly, standing up.