Samuel smiled back, only a small lifting of his lips, and turned to the auburn-haired beauty. “That sounds lovely.”
“I’m going to grab another drink too,” Charles said, bouncing on his toes to try and flag down a waiter.
Apropos of nothing, Rory said, “Miranda could probably outdrink all of you.”
Five sets of eyes—including mine—swung her way, and four people started speaking at once.
“What?”
“Fat chance.”
“Our Miranda?”
“Oh, that’s right.”
I stared at Rory in shock, but not before I saw the way that Hank was staring at me.
“You’re looking at the undisputed champion of the Paterson Hall beer chugging contest four years running,” she said. “Technically speaking, the first time she came in second place, but then Swayze puked all over the floor so she won by default.”
And then Hank’s head swung from me to stare at Samuel, as if suddenly realizing what he’d just said. “Wait, you knew about this?”
Samuel grinned at me fondly, his eyes warm behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “Of course I did.” From all outward appearances, he looked like your classic academic. Nothing about the way he spoke or carried himself gave even the slightest clue that when he took off all that tweed, underneath was a dominant man who needed his woman submissive and sweet. And since I was nothing but argumentative and stubborn, we never would have worked out in the long term.
“How?” Hank barked, his tone gruff and … angry?
My eyebrows screwed down in confusion and Samuel’s grin dipped a fraction, his eyes flashing with momentary sadness before he quickly masked the emotion. “We used to date. I know a lot about Miranda that I’d wager you don’t.” And that sounded vaguely challenging.
Hank crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes darting between us as if he was seeing us in a whole new light. Gone was the strangely assessing look he’d worn earlier, and in its place was something … determined. “When was this?”
“When we were at Oxford together,” Samuel said, smiling at me over the rim of his whiskey glass.
“How did I not know this?” Hank speared me with an angry glare.
“Know what? That Samuel and I dated, or that I went to Oxford.”
“Either. Both.”
“Maybe because you never asked. Or, better yet, because it’s none of your fucking business,” I said, my voice came out sounding a little bit bitter and a whole lot harsher than I’d intended.
“Of course it’s my business,” he shot back, taking a step toward me, essentially breaking up the small circle the six of us had formed.
“How is my life any of your business?” I shot back, lifting my head a fraction so that my jaw jutted forward.
He took another step closer, effectively closing all distance between us. “It just is.”
“Why?” I demanded, staring up into eyes that sparked with anger, frustration, and something I couldn’t name.
His gaze flicked between mine for several long seconds, and my heart clanged loudly in my ears, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the small voice at the back of my head that was quietly begging him to just shut up already and kiss me.
Wait, what?
All at once, all the noise in the room came roaring back, and I took a giant step away from him and into the relative safety of our circle.
I found Rory’s concerned face across the circle. She was chewing on her lip with worry. “It’s okay, Rory.” I didn’t want her having one of her regular panic attacks. Poor thing was riddled with anxiety.
“No, it’s not. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble with your co-worker.”
“She’s not in trouble,” Hank bit out, glacial eyes latched on mine. “In fact, I challenge her to a drinking contest.” As spoke, the tension in his rigid shoulders seemed to disappear until he adopted an easy, relaxed posture I recognized all too well. It was his “I got this” pose.
I dropped my head back to stare up at the ballroom ceiling. Baby Jesus in a manger, give me strength.
Natasha squealed and clapped, as if his idea was the single greatest thing she’d ever heard. “Ooh, yes. Let’s do that instead.”
When I opened my mouth to say it was the worst idea I’d ever heard, Hank grinned at me like he knew I wouldn’t be able to back down from whatever words he spoke next. “Unless you have some socks to sort out instead.”
I lifted my chin even higher. “As Barney Stinson is so fond of saying, challenge accepted.”
Three
“To Miranda!” Rory lifted her Corona high in the air, her voice filled with jubilation over the epic smackdown I’d just delivered.
“To Miranda!” Natasha, Samuel, and Charles echoed in unison. Charles’s declaration was immediately followed by a loud hiccup.
Across from me, Hank was bent over at the waist, his palms planted on his knees, as his back lifted and shrank with deep, restorative breaths. I recognized them for what they really were—he was trying not to puke up the beer he’d just shotgunned in thirty seconds.
Unfortunately for him, I’d finished mine in twenty-one. Just like black jack, baby!
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and let out a small belch as Samuel slung his arm across my shoulder—just in time for Hank to rise to his full height and notice the affectionate gesture. His eyes narrowed distrustfully when Samuel’s thumb stroked over my clavicle.
“Okay, Whitcomb. You won that round, but there’s still one more to go.”
The first round had gone to Hank when he threw back three shots of tequila before I could even get down one of them. After an unfortunate incident my freshman year involving a bottom shelf bottle of tequila and cheap pumpkin beer chasers, I’d never been able to drink the stuff again. I should have just forfeited the round altogether, but my reputation was on the line here.
“What’s the tiebreaker?” Natasha wrinkled her nose with obvious distaste.
“I have an idea,” Rory raised her finger to gain the attention of the group.
Hank and I groaned in stereo. Her last bright idea was what had gotten us here in the first place. I wasn’t nearly as bad off as Hank seemed to be, but it was only a matter of time until I joined him on the Green Around the Gills Express. I wasn’t eighteen anymore, which meant I was a bit out of practice when it came to chugging beer. I might have downed my can of Foster’s quicker than anyone had expected me to, but I could feel it threatening to make a reappearance if I tried to do it a second time.
“Just hear me out,” Rory said, her gaze darting between Hank and me with understanding.
“What is it?” he asked, breathing deeply through his nose and then letting it out in a long slow gust from his mouth.
“Let’s grab some food, and then we can head over to this dive bar off the Strip that I Googled before flying out here. They have tables for beer pong, flip cup, and quarters. You guys can captain two teams, and whoever wins gets bragging rights.”
Hank cast a curious glance my way, and I nodded my head in silent assent. As far as drinking contests went, this wasn’t a half bad idea. It meant we could offload some of the burden onto our compatriots, which also meant we might be able to function come morning. I certainly wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to accept their help, and from the hopeful look on Hank’s face, it didn’t appear he was either.
“That sounds great,” I said at the same time that Hank said, “I’m in.”
Rory beamed at us and then slung her arms around Natasha and Charles. “Perfect! I also read about this taqueria that’s on the way. Supposedly they have the best birria tacos in all of Nevada.”
“What’s birria?” Natasha asked as Rory led her and Charles toward the exit.
“You don’t want to know,” Samuel answered, his eyes dancing with laughter as he followed in their wake.
That left Hank and me standing together near the bar. He tossed a one hundred dollar bill on the counter and then opened hi
s mouth to say something. Then, as if thinking better of it, his lips flattened into a harsh line.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head and gestured ahead of him. “Ladies first.”
Confusion mingled with curiosity. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Hank and I had called a truce today, but the last two hours had been … not unpleasant. Almost friendly and convivial. He hadn’t insulted me even once since we’d arrived at the dimly lit bar to begin this ill-advised bout of drinking Olympics. It was actually quite lovely.
Which was why I didn’t trust it to last.
There were a lot of words you could use to describe Hank Talbot, and lovely was definitely not one of them. Arrogant. Brutish. Immature. Handsome. Sexy.
Problematic.
“Suit yourself,” I said over my right shoulder as I strode ahead of him and out into the scorching June night. When he caught up with me outside on the sidewalk, I ignored the fact that I’d caught him staring at my ass as I’d sauntered away.
* * *
“Where’d you learn to play beer pong like that?” When Hank looped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in close, I didn’t know if he was just being friendly (which was still weird), or if he was using me to hold himself upright.
I also wasn’t sure that it mattered because I could use some help in that regard too. Until he’d wrapped me up in his arms, I’d been dangerously close to sliding down the wall.
Now I squinted up at him, one eye winking closed as I tried to bring him into focus. “I grew up with four brothers,” I explained, making sure to enunciate each word very carefully. I reasoned that if I could still speak in full and complete sentences, I wasn’t that drunk. Then again, I was telling him something I’d never told anyone before in my life, and no matter how loudly the sirens were blaring in my head, I kept on speaking. So maybe I was really fucking drunk after all. “In high school they threw epic parties whenever our parents were out of town. One time a guy on their water polo team got me so wasted that I fell into the pool. After that, they decided it would be a good idea to teach me how to hold my liquor.” I lifted my shoulder as if to convey that it was no big deal. In truth, it had been a very big deal. Not only had I lost my virginity that night, but I’d nearly drowned too.
Hank straightened and pressed his palm flat against the wall behind me. “What did you say?”
“My brothers—”
“No, about the other guy. The one who got you drunk.”
I stared up at him quizzically, my alcohol-soaked brain having a hard time keeping up with the sudden shift in conversation. Also, why was he scowling at me again? I lifted my hand and patted his cheek, a ghost of a five o’clock shadow abrading my skin. “I liked you better when you were smiling.” I scrubbed my palm back and forth over his surprisingly soft whiskers.
“And I liked it better when you weren’t telling me that some asshole took advantage of you when you were just a kid.”
I pushed my back up against the wall to brace myself and lifted my chin haughtily. “I wasn’t a kid. I was sixteen.”
Hank swallowed and his eyes flashed with anger. He reached out and gently pushed a lock of hair that had come loose from the bun on top of my head behind my ear. I shivered when his finger traced a light path from my ear down my neck. “Did he … was he … ?”
I might have been drunk, but I didn’t have to be sober to understand what he was asking. The question was written all over his face and in the harsh, implacable lines of his shoulders. “No, it wasn’t like that.”
Tag Everholt hadn’t raped me. I’d had a crush on him for months, and while I hadn’t wanted to have sex for the first time in our pool house on top of a broken lounger, I hadn’t said no either. Losing my virginity hadn’t been the grand, romantic escapade my teenage brain had longed for, but rather a quick, painful introduction to disappointment and disillusionment. It had been stupid; not a tragedy.
“You’re telling me that asshole didn’t get you drunk, try to fuck you, and then watch you nearly drown?”
My gaze darted guiltily away, but Hank’s thumb and forefinger circled my chin and he gently spun my face back around to his.
“Okay, fine. It was kind of like that,” I admitted, shame washing over me.
I left out the part that Tag hadn’t just tried—he’d succeeded. And though he’d told me I was beautiful and he’d never said anything before because I’d been too young, once it was over, he never called afterward. When our paths crossed a month later, he pretended like I didn’t exist. In hindsight, it was probably for the best that he’d blown me off so spectacularly, otherwise, I might have pined for him a lot longer than I actually did. Still, it had hurt—both the sex and his rejection—and it had left a lasting, indelible impression on me.
With blinding clarity that can only come from having practically drank your weight in alcohol, I realized Tag’s treatment of me all those years ago was the real reason I was so distrustful of men. Why, except for Samuel, I always expected to be let down by them.
And then my eyes went wide with further comprehension. I’d used Hank as the proxy for all my hate and anger. Rich, good looking, and confident in the extreme, on paper he was so much like my brothers’ friend. Except, when Hank wasn’t playing the role of a dissolute rich boy, he was charming and insightful. And, it as much as it pained me to admit it, he was quite good at his job too. His students absolutely adored him. I knew this because his class was right before mine, and I’d often hear them talking animatedly about his lectures as they shuffled out of the classroom.
“Miranda …” The cinnamon-scent from the shot of Fireball we’d tossed back a few minutes earlier wafted against my lips. I swore I could taste it. Taste him. “Is that why you hate men?”
I opened my mouth to reject the claim, but then closed it just as quickly. Mutely, I nodded and felt my eyes brimming with sudden tears.
All at once, Hank banded his arms around me and pulled me in flush against him. His large hand cupped the back of my head as I sobbed into his strong, comforting embrace. “What am I going to do with you?”
I shook my head against a wall of firm muscle. Frankly, I didn’t have an answer to that question. In the span of a few minutes, my entire world view had been upended. It turned out that Hank Talbot had been right about me from the very start. I did blame rich, entitled white men for the world’s most pressing problems—and all because a douchebag who should have known better had gotten me wasted and then stolen my virginity from me.
Adding insult to injury, the douche canoe in question was now a U.S. congressman with a nasty habit of voting down any bill that gave women equal footing in the workplace. Given my history with him, it was no wonder I’d become such a staunch advocate for gender equality. No one had stood up and protected me back when I needed them to, so I’d worked diligently to carve out a career where I could help prepare the next generation of young women to fend for themselves.
I sniffled and leaned away from the cradle of Hank’s embrace. “Thank you,” I said, looking up at him. “I think I needed that.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, concern etched his proud, handsome features.
“I’m fine.” I swiped the pads of my fingers under my eyes to erase the mascara I was certain had turned me into a doppelgänger of a deranged raccoon. “Or rather, I will be.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
I pushed out of his arms and pulled a few deep, calming breaths into my lungs. I threw my shoulders back with feigned courage. Inside, however, I was quaking with vulnerability—something I absolutely abhorred. I’d just confessed my deepest, darkest shame to a man who I’d loathed for years, and I was wrecked.
I needed to get back on equal footing with him, but more than that, I needed a few more moments of oblivion. “You know what you can do for me?” I asked, looking up at him with what I hoped was an air of flirty confidence. “You can get me another shot.”
It wasn’t lost on me that
I’d uttered those same words to Tag and they’d dramatically altered the fabric of my life. I just hoped I’d learned my lesson in the years in between.
Four
Through bleary, tired eyes, I glanced up at Hank’s handsome face as he stared down at me with his own eyes brimming with something that appeared a whole hell of a lot like happiness. Frankly, it was hard for me to adequately place his expression since it wasn’t one I’d ever seen him wearing before tonight.
This evening, I realized, was turning out to be quite the revelation where he was concerned. I didn’t know if I could ever go back to thinking about him the way I’d done for the past three years. Ever since he’d first challenged me to a drink off—which I’d won, by the way—he’d been delivering one pleasant surprise after another, culminating in him paying for a complete stranger’s wedding.
After our friends had ditched us, instead of going back to our hotel, by mutual agreement we’d hit up another bar where we’d made new friends. Specifically, Beatrice and Gloria, two forty-something lesbians who, after pretending to be roommates for the last twenty years, had decided to give their staunchly conservative families the proverbial finger and had run off to Vegas to get married. Their elopement had been a spur of the moment decision just that morning, so they’d had no one to stand up for them as they exchanged their vows.
“Everyone deserves to have someone who’s always in their corner,” he’d said, his lips turned down in a sad frown.
From there, he’d pulled out his black Amex card, paid our bar tab, and ordered a stretch limo. That was when he’d offered to be Gloria’s best man. With tears in her eyes, she’d graciously accepted.
At which point Beatrice had turned to me. “Well, that’s settled then. You’re going to be my maid of honor,” she’d said, looping her arm through mine.
I didn’t like to brag, but Hank and I had been the best damn wedding attendants Elvis had ever seen. I knew this because he’d told us so, and Elvis never lied. Or maybe that was Santa. I was having difficulty keeping it all straight.
The Worst Man (Wedding Season Series) Page 2