Scored (V-Card Diaries 1)

“Harlow!” I call out. “Come on. We have a table in the back.”

But Harlow isn’t listening to me. She’s wagging her finger at the guy’s chest as she shouts, “Now, get out. You aren’t wanted here. Fuckheads like you don’t get to call the shots anymore. You don’t get to make us run away. Now, you run. And you run fast.”

“Or what?” Shorter Guy yells back, his voice loud enough to attract the attention of the table of men watching the game, several of whom shoot concerned glances over their shoulders. “You can’t make me do shit. I’m not scared of bitches like you. I’m a real man, not some fucking pussy who’s going to let a bitch half his size tell him what to do.”

“Yeah,” Buzz Cut pipes up.

“Shut up, we’re trying to watch the game,” one of the baseball guys shouts, to which Buzz replies, “Shut your fucking ass, asshole!” which doesn’t make a lot of sense, but signals that brawl I’ve been trying to avoid isn’t off the table just yet.

“Harlow, come on!” Evie calls out, but Harlow is already launching into another demand for the men to leave and the bouncer is still nowhere in sight.

Evie starts back toward her, but I squeeze her hand tight and lean down to whisper in her ear, “Take Jess to the back and find Cameron. There’s another exit by the bathrooms. I’ll get Harlow and meet you there.”

“No,” Evie says, “you’ll get hurt. They won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that, and I can take a punch from one of those guys a lot easier than you can,” I say, squeezing her hand tighter. “Now, go, Evie. Or I’m going to carry you out first and then come get Harlow, and by then she could be in real trouble.”

She glances swiftly over her shoulder and then back at me, clearly torn. But the sound of Shorter beginning to shout over Harlow again seems to convince her I’m right.

She nods. “Okay, but if they jump you, I’m coming in hard with a beer bottle or a dart or something. I’ve got your back.”

“Me, too,” Jess says. “Even though this is all bizarre. Isn’t it, Evie? Who knew mating rituals were so…illogical?”

“What’s happening?” Cameron asks, appearing beside me. “Is that Harlow?”

“Yeah, and we need to—”

I’m cut off by a deep voice booming, “Back off. Now.” A moment later, Harlow shouts, “No! No fucking way. Don’t you dare, Derrick, I—”

Her words end in a squeal as she’s flipped over a shoulder and toted out the front door by someone I can only assume is Evie’s brother.

Evie’s. Brother.

Evie and I lock eyes, hers widen, and a beat later we’re beating a fast retreat toward the back door, Cameron and Jess hot on our heels.

Chapter 15

Evie

Nearly an hour later, I finally get a response to the fifteen texts I’ve sent Harlow—Sorry, yes! I’m fine.

Derrick carried me back to the apartment like a Neanderthal and asked where you were a million times. I told him “I don’t know,” a million and one before he left.

Argh! I hate him so much.

But I love you. You guys have a good time wherever you end up. I’m going to hit the hay.

Tonight clearly isn’t my night.

After texting that I’m relieved she’s safe, I sag against the back of the diner booth and announce to the table, “She’s fine. She’s home, Derrick’s gone, and they didn’t kill each other. So…all’s well that ends well?”

“That did not end well,” Jess says, taking a solemn pull on her milkshake’s straw. She swallows and curls her lip. “That was dumb.”

“Yeah,” Cameron agrees. “The woman I was playing darts with was married. She didn’t bother telling me that, however, until her husband came in and glared at me like he wanted to peel my skin off with a paring knife.”

“Maybe we need to hit a better bar next time?” I suggest, casting a glance Ian’s way. But he’s still studying his plate of fries like it’s an oracle about to reveal the fate of the universe.

He’s barely said five words since we raced out of Spliffy’s and has been avoiding direct eye contact since…

Well, since I said what I said.

“No, we need a controlled experiment,” Jess says. “Somewhere to test our skills where we know there will be lots of single people and zero toxic masculine types.”

“Good luck with that,” Cam says with a sigh. “Even at the restaurant, we get guys like that every once in a while, and we don’t have a single entrée that costs less than fifty bucks per plate.” He stretches his arms over his head with a yawn. “And on that note, I’m going to head home, too, guys. I have the lunch shift tomorrow and two of my best guys are going to be out. I want to get there early and do some appetizer prep.”