Page 63 of Unruly

“Hey, man, heard you’ve been having some fun without me. Why don’t we go hang out in the back, and I can find the good shit Aria hides.” Colt winks at me and loops an arm under Cash’s, trying to guide him toward the back room for some quiet.

Cash resists at first, then leans into him with a sloppy laugh. “Hell yeah; we need the good stuff. Colt, you see your sister? Halle. Right there. I love that woman—told the whole damn bar. I’ve always loved her.”

Colt’s shoulders stiffen.

Oh fuck … Here we go again …

I tense, ready for Colt to lay Cash’s drunk ass out.

Colt shoots me a glance—exasperated, protective. “Cash, come on. Not now. Let’s just go chill for a moment—just us guys. Halle is working.”

But Cash won’t stop. The words pour out, louder in his haze. “She’s it for me. It’s the truth, Colt. I’m messed up tonight, but I mean it. Love her. Always will.”

Colt’s jaw clenches tighter with every mention of me being the object of Cash’s drunken devotion. He wrestles Cash toward the back, voice dropping low but edged. “Cash, man, shut the fuck up. Enough about Halle; she’s my sister. Please just shut up about it for five seconds. Today’s been hell without you making it weird.”

Cash mumbles something else as Colt hauls him to the back. Once he’s out of sight, I move into damage control, cleaning up the toppled chairs and broken glasses that got caught in the cross fire.

Not even ten minutes pass before Colt comes flying back up to the side of the bar, dragging a hand down his face. He looks at me, eye twitching.

“Take him home, Halle. Get him the fuck out of here now. I’ll close the bar down tonight. I can’t listen to another word of this. You handle him; I’ve got the rest.”

“Why can’t you just take him home?”

“Because he literally won’t shut up about you and I want to throw up in my mouth.”

“And you think I want to deal with the crazy lovesick man who’s grieving?” I whisper-shout as I serve someone a beer.

“Yes, because I ain’t doing it.” Colt looks back toward the office where Cash is, half-worried, half-annoyed, then turns to start cleaning glasses and taking over orders.

Grabbing my keys, I go back to the office and tell Cash we’re leaving. He smiles and tries to kiss me, but I dodge it, slinging his arm over my shoulders. “If you kiss me in this bar, in front of people, I’m going to punch you in the balls.”

“Can I kiss you when we get out of The Bar?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his footing unsteady. But he follows, mumbling my name as we step into the cool night.

The drive to my place feels longer than it really is. Cash leans his head against the window, quiet for stretches, then breaking it with soft words about the service. He’s finally showing signs of sobering up.

I guide him inside the house, clicking the lights on one by one. He drops onto the couch with a groan. I grab him a water, ibuprofen from the kitchen, and a clean washcloth.

I check his knuckles out again—where there are still some bits of blood drying in cracks—then sit beside him and dab gently, the cloth turning pink.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he mutters, watching with glassy eyes. Shadows linger under them, lines carved deeper by grief. The funeral broke something loose in him, and the whiskey rushed right in.

“I’m here because you’re a mess right now.”

Next, I guide him to the bathroom, helping him out of his stained shirt. Using a warm, damp washcloth, I wipe his face. His skin feels warm under my touch. Once he’s cleaned up, we get him back to my bed, where he sinks into my mattress, removing his boots as he starts to pull the blankets over himself.

Then, he catches my wrist before I can step away. “Please stay with me.”

I perch on the edge of the bed, his thumb brushing the skin on my wrist in slow circles. The room feels intimate, charged with everything we’ve danced around.

“Today fucking wrecked me,” he whispers, voice rough but clearer now.

There’s a twist in my chest, seeing him like this.

This isn’t like Cash. He’s genuinely heartbroken.