The bartender delivers a glass of ice water while I wait, and a staffer runs a wide broom across the floor, sweeping up remnants of tonight’s show, I wait in a quiet, lit bar, spinning a cardboard coaster between my fingers while simultaneously scrolling through my phone.
Minutes later, the screech of the bar stool beside me grinding against the concrete floor pulls me out of my moment. “Never got a chance to apologize for yesterday.”
It’s Isaiah. For the millionth time.
“You get your Porsche to start?” I ask.
His brows furrow. “Yeah. Why?”
I lift a shoulder. “It explains why you’re being so nice now.”
“All due respect, you don’t know me.” His jaw tightens and he adjusts himself in his seat.
“Thank God for that.” I say. “I may not know you, but I do know you were perfectly fine being rude to a complete stranger yesterday—not once but twice—and that says a lot about you as a person. So yeah, thanks for the ticket tonight, but your apologies aren’t needed because they won’t change the fact that you’re a miserable asshole.”
My face turns numb. Shock? Disbelief maybe? I’ve never gone off on anyone like that before, but I had to say those things. He needed to hear them. People like that need to hear words like this.
“Jesus.” He exhales. “You’re, uh, you’re kind of intense when you’re angry.”
“Now you’re just being offensive.”
“Offensive?” He jerks away, fighting a smirk.
“Yes. I’m trying to be real with you and you’re not taking me seriously,” I say. “And now you’re laughing at me.”
His lips press together, like he’s stifling another grin, and I have half a mind to slap him and I’ve never slapped anyone before.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just hard when you’re trying to be so angry and all I can think about is how you’re kind of sexy when you’re angry.”
My jaw hangs.
Somewhere in the past five minutes we clearly took a wrong turn.
Or he’s severely under the influence.
Yeah. Alcohol. It’s got to be the alcohol talking.
“You ever get tired of being like this?” I ask him. “So … douche-y?”
“You ever get tired of being so perfect all the time?” he asks. “Clearly you never do anything wrong or have a bad fucking day in your life because if you did, you wouldn’t be so quick to write off someone’s apology.”
“I’m not perfect, Isaiah. I’m nice. There’s a difference. I treat people the way I want to be treated.” I stand, my finger pointed in his face, and while I’m trying not to raise my voice, I can’t help it. My blood is boiling, my skin on fire, my palms aching to smack him across his impossibly gorgeous face. “I’d rather be nice than a fucking prick like you.”
In an instant, I lose it.
I just want him out of my space.
I lose all control and I do something I’ve never done in my life.
And by the time I open my eyes, I confirm that I have indeed thrown my ice water in his face.
Oops.
The two of us are wearing matching horrified expressions and Isaiah looks like he’s two seconds from uttering some kind of profanity in my direction when a man’s voice booms in our ears, “Enough!”
We both turn to find the six-foot-seven behemoth standing over us, his arms folded across his barrel chest as he peers down his aquiline nose.
“You guys are done,” he says, pointing toward the door with a meaty finger. The muscles bulging out of his black “security” t-shirt are enough to make me not question his authority. “You’re out of here.”
Isaiah and I exchange looks and despite the fact that his gray t-shirt is drenched and his hair is ruined and I still have the urge to smack him across his arrogant mouth, he’s still annoyingly attractive.
“We’re fine,” he tells the security guard. “She just got a little worked up, but we’re cool now. Right, Maritza?”
“Yep. We’re cool,” I say, forcing my voice steady despite the fact that my entire body is trembling with little adrenaline-fueled aftershocks.
The giant’s expression doesn’t soften or budge and he moves behind us, herding us toward the exit.
“Are we really being kicked out?” I ask.
The man doesn’t answer. Isaiah stays quiet, respectful. Hopefully with his connections he can get us back in … then again, he doesn’t exactly owe me any favors and we’re not exactly on pleasant terms right now.
The second we’re outside, the door slams behind us. Isaiah checks it, pushing on the handle but with no use. We’re locked out.
“Hope it was worth it,” he says under his breath. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he makes a call, then sends a text, then shoves it back in.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Trying to get us back in, but Case isn’t answering.” He runs his hand through his dark hair before staring toward a traffic light in the distance. “He probably doesn’t have his phone on him. Great. This is really fucking great.”