Page 22 of Cockpit
“Get the hell out of here, before I call the cops so they can help you sober up.” Grayson shoves the man toward the other side of the alleyway. The man looks back, almost as if he’s been shocked sober and isn’t sure what’s going on. “Keep walking.”
I stare at Grayson’s back, my adrenaline fading. My panic shifting to shame. My fear morphing into embarrassment that I couldn’t handle myself.
I was handling myself.
I think.
Then why do my knees feel like rubber and my eyes burn with tears?
Right when I feel like I’m going to give in to my moment of weakness, Grayson turns around and faces me.
For one short moment, I allow myself to feel relief, to feel safe. Then the shock of what just happened—of Grayson being the one to render help—has me straightening my spine.
There’s a look in his eye—controlled rage warring with complete concern—that pins me motionless, allowing me to feel every thump of my heartbeat as the adrenaline races through my body. A small part of me
wonders if it’s because of the man who just ran away or because of the man who’s standing before me, looking just as dangerous to me but in a completely different way.
Vulnerability is not something that suits me, and yet I feel exposed when the threat is no longer near.
Or is it?
“Christ, Sidney.” His eyes flicker over every part of me. Checking for bruises. Looking for tears. Waiting for a meltdown. “I forgot to pay my tab. I was coming back to—how stupid can you be?”
“Excuse me?” If he wanted to give my emotions whiplash, then he just accomplished it.
“What woman walks into a dark alley behind a bar by herself?”
“You’re blaming this on me?”
“Damn straight, I am. Are you too coddled to have common sense?”
Asshole. “I was looking for you,” I say between clenched teeth as I glare at him.
Our eyes hold for the briefest of moments before he turns and paces from one side of the alley to the other. His hands are on the back of his head when he blows out an exaggerated breath as if he’s trying to rein in his temper. When he stops in front of me and holds his hands out to his sides, it’s obvious his attempt is unsuccessful.
“Looking for me? Why? To save your magazine? Save it your goddamn self.” There must be something in my expression—call it blanket confusion—that has a smirk coming to his lips. “Ah . . . you didn’t realize you said that, did you? A little slip of the tongue while you were fumbling through your sales pitch inside?”
Did I really say that? Crap. Crap. Crap.
“You know, a real gentleman would ask if I’m okay.”
“No,” he says and takes a step closer. “A real gentleman would step in to save you like I did, and a real lady would say thank you for doing so . . . but it’s you, right? You want something from everyone but refuse to give anything to anyone, so a thank you is off the table.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Save it, Princess; life’s not fair.” There’s a bite to his tone as he takes in my trembling hands and shivering body, but he never utters the words his eyes say—are you okay?—before they turn cold again. The brief glimpse of compassion is gone. “And it seems to me you’re just fine, so playing the damsel-in-distress thing doesn’t work for me, and it sure as hell isn’t going to get me to sign on as the poster boy for your stupid contest.”
“The last thing I need is a man to swoop in and save the day.”
“Huh. And I thought all princesses were helpless and liked to be saved.”
“I am not a princess.”
“You just stomped your foot like you were.” He shakes his head before looking to the edge of the alley and then back at me. “Are we done here? Because if so, I’ll just take off, and you can stay here and find someone to take my place in your contest.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
His chuckle reverberates off the brick walls of the bar’s exterior and back to me, causing every part of me to bristle. “You’re not the first to call me that, and you sure as hell won’t be the last.”
