Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
“Sorry,” I choke out and try to capture my breath.
He shakes his head like sorry isn’t necessary. “You alright? You blanked out.” I think I scared him.
I’m sorry. I don’t say it again. I just tell him, “I’m okay.”
He wipes my forehead, and I realize I’m cold and clammy. “Let’s get you some water—” he starts.
“Nice thong, slut!” a guy hollers. My green thong is riding high on my hips, and my black sweatpants are riding lower. Everything happens so fast. Before Donnelly can reply, I sense a stranger’s hand reaching for me—to maybe grab and snap my thong.
Donnelly sets me on my feet and pushes me behind him, but one hand stays in mine. With his other, he shoves an athletic guy’s chest and says, “Get the fuck outta here, man.” He doesn’t wait for the guy’s response. He guides me to the bar, and his lips dip to my ear. “We’re closing out. Gotta go.”
I nod, understanding. It’s not safe here anymore, and it has nothing to do with me being Luna Hale, American royalty.
One quick peek back, and yep, the guy is tracking us to the bar. He wears a dark green Eagles jersey, knit beanie, and a snide drunken smile, his brown eyes a little glazed.
“Hey!!” he yells at Donnelly. “She’s asking for it, man!”
Donnelly is on an ignore setting. His hands are rooted to my shoulders, and he ensures my back is not to this asshole. Towering over me, Donnelly shouts to the bartender, “I need to close out!”
Bartender nods.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” Drunk Guy sounds so close, and with another glance, I realize his shoulder has bumped into Donnelly’s back.
“You don’t say?” Donnelly feigns confusion. “Been thinking you were just speaking to the beer taps. Making enemies with the Yuengling.” He grabs his credit card off the sticky surface. “Thanks,” he says to the bartender, then rotates me towards the door. He’s walking me out, but he whispers in my ear, “Go to the car. Lock yourself inside.” He’s slipping the keys in my palm.
I frown. “But—”
“I gotta grab your backpack.”
Oh fuck. I didn’t even realize I left it in our booth. My diary. What if someone steals my diary?! “I’ll go with you—”
“Walk away, pussy!” Drunk Guy yells.
Someone else shouts, “Shut up, man!”
“You shut up!” Drunk Guy spits and continues trailing us.
I reach the door, but Drunk Guy is a few feet behind Donnelly. “Hey!!” he shouts more angrily. “I’m talking to you! Take control of your slut, man!”
Donnelly opens the door for me, and I see the tic of his jaw muscle, the narrowing of his usually calm blue eyes. He whispers, “Wait for me in the car.”
I nod and inch out into the cold. The bouncer glances curiously between me and Donnelly but says nothing. Against better judgment, I wedge my foot in the door right as Donnelly spins around on the asshole, and I watch.
“Shut the fuck up, man,” Donnelly sneers and shoulder-bumps him on his route to our booth. I’m wishing more for Donnelly to return to me than I’m wishing for my backpack. As he rummages around the booth, Drunk Guy rears up behind him.
“Donnelly!” I warn.
His head swings to me, and his eyes flare in concern. I distract him—no, no, no. Drunk Guy pushes Donnelly. To where his stomach crashes into the table. Then Donnelly twists around and throws a fist at Drunk Guy’s face. In one blow, the asshole is stumbling into barstools with a mouthful of blood.
A few other dudes start clapping near the window. Donnelly is quick to reach beneath the table, grab my backpack, and jog out into the cold. The door clangs shut behind him.
He’s sweeping me for signs of breakage.
“I’mokayI’mokay,” I slur fast, hooking a finger in his belt loops. “Are you?”
He exhales. “I will be once we get out.” Concern still rests against his eyes. He curves an arm around my shoulders, buries a kiss in my hair while we walk, and my lungs reinflate. He brings me to security’s parallel-parked SUV. Once inside, I lock the doors.
He cranks up the heat. “Check to make sure everything’s in there before we go.”
Backpack on my lap, I unzip and scrounge around, easing at the sight of the sparkly hardcase binding. “Diary is here.” Not stolen. A fist raps my window. “Ahh!” I scream and flinch.
Donnelly’s arm has instinctively shot out across my body to protect me, but I’m safely locked inside the SUV.
But there is a guy. Right outside the car window.
This isn’t the drunken asshole from Thirsty Goose.
“Luna?” the stranger calls, squinting at the dark tint of the windows. I imagine he only sees the outline of me. I see all of him.
Mid-twenties, brown hair long enough to peek out of a beanie, a dangling cross earring in his earlobe, a leather jacket on a tall build, scuffed Vans—I have no earthly clue who he is.