I glance at Lily who pockets her phone as soon as my eyes hit her.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Texting Lo. Let’s order.”
If this bartender would respond to my waving hand, that task would be much easier. But she’s having a nice time flirting with the male customers who’ll tip her more. I would have tipped her well. Now I’m reconsidering. I snap my fingers.
Lily grabs my hands, flushing in embarrassment. “She’s not a dog.”
Well she’s not a good bartender either. But I tone it down because Lily looks as red as the bartender’s formfitting dress.
I guess we’ll have to wait.
Patience—it’s something I don’t have.
CHAPTER 47
CONNOR COBALT
Scott keeps looking at Rose. It’s creepy. Can you do something? – Lily
I pocket my phone. I’ve tried to stand up and distract Scott from Rose, but every time I do, Lo pulls me back down and Ryke tells me not to give him the time of “fucking” day. But it’s about Rose, and I don’t want her to be uncomfortable because of him.
“Go back to Philly, assholes!” Someone screams from one leather couch over.
“I’m getting the sense we’re not wanted here,” Lo says dryly. He tries not to provoke the hecklers, but I can see the irritation growing as he flashes a bitter smile.
I glance from the text to Scott. “Give me a minute,” I tell the guys. “I need to talk to him. Seriously.” I have to see what he’s plotting.
“No, we thought you were joking the last four times,” Lo says.
But I stand up from the leather couch anyway, expecting Lo to tug me back, but he just nods to me and says, “Tell him I hate him.”
“Any other messages?” I look at Ryke.
“Tell him to fuck himself.”
I nod. “Didn’t expect anything eloquent.”
He flips me off, and I leave both of them to go to Scott. I rest my arm on the railing like him, not saying a word as I stand by his side. I just watch what he does.
Rose.
She argues with the a brunette bartender in a red dress, and even from afar, I notice the way she cranes forward with heat in her eyes, obviously on the offensive about something.
“So here you are,” I say, feeling the gleam of Ben’s camera lens behind me. “I have the girl, and you’re left with what?” I finally turn to look at him.
“I never wanted the girl,” he says.
I try not to seem shocked. I thought this was a pissing contest from the start. “You wanted fame,” I state, throwing it out there for him to catch.
“No.” He stands straighter. As do I. And we face each other. “If I wanted fame, do you really think I’d be the producer of a reality show? You think someone’s going to award me a fucking Emmy for filming six rich college students?”
I don’t make a point to announce that I already graduated college. He knows this. “So you just want money from the show,” I say. “Princesses of Philly is a hit. You have your payoff. There’s no reason to keep looking at Rose. The charade is over, Scott. You’re not her ex. You’ve never been.” But I stop myself. The more I say these things, the more his lips curve in a smug grin. I inhale in detest, rubbing my mouth as a bad taste rises.
“There’s no season two, is there?” he asks.
“No.”
“I figured as much when she signed the contract. I thought there’s no way she’d want to do this for longer than six months.” He shakes his head at me. “It’s not over, Connor.”
He wants more money.
What the fuck is he going to do?
Before I have a chance to continue, my phone repeatedly buzzes in my pocket. I answer it, not checking the caller.
“You have to get down here, right now!” Lily yells so I can hear over the loud music.
“What’s going on?” I ask while I look for them at the bar. Rose is no longer arguing with the bartender. The thirty-something guy next to her is in her fucking face. And she’s in his as they scream.
I can hear her voice in the background of Lily’s receiver.
“Just order the fucking beer!” he yells. “Who cares what size it is?!”
“For you to understand me, you’d have to open your tiny, infantile brain,” she sneers, “and try to step onto my plane of existence!”
“Girl size or guy size, it’s not that fucking hard of a concept! Small or large!”
“FUCK YOU!” she shouts, not even that drunk.
I race down the balcony stairs at that last curse word. And I feel Ryke and Loren behind me, the distress must be clear in my muscles that constrict from my neck to arms.
When I reach the first floor, still on the phone with Lily, I sprint ahead, the crowds parting as soon as they see me. The bar is in sight. Maybe fifty feet away.
And then he punches her.
In the face.
Everything moves quickly.
The momentum knocks Rose off the bar stool. Lily crouches down to help her, and Daisy shoves the guy, screaming and trying to hit him back.
My heart is in my throat. The sensible, reasonable part of me that I have always listened to says to go to Rose, to make sure she’s okay. But the livid, boiling side that Rose is familiar with has a mind of its own. I’m already making my way to him, my hand clenched around my phone, my knuckles white with hatred. Who the fuck punches a woman? I’ve met some assholes—some really fucked up people that would sell their child if it meant living an A-class lifestyle. But this shit is something new and foreign and disgusting.
I almost reach the guy.
But as soon as he says, “Oh, you’re that prick on the show. Come to restrain your fucking crazy girlfriend? She needs her mouth taped shut—”
I lay one fist into his stomach before the bouncers separate us. My grip was strong enough to break the screen on my phone. These stupid, raging emotions collect as I realize Rose is still hurt. On the ground.
I find her within a second. Lily has her arms above Rose so no one enters her space. And Lo is right beside Rose’s head, holding a napkin filled with ice to her cheek that he must have grabbed from the bar.
“Tell me you hit him,” Lo says the moment he sees me.
I nod once.
“Thank God.”
“Thank me,” I say, dropping to my knees while Lo just laughs. It’s easy to joke right now. This is the hard part. “Rose?” I inspect her cheek that swells. Not a shiner, but she’ll have a bruise on the bone. I can barely breathe without seeing a fist in her face. Her body falling off the stool. The motion is repeated over and over again. I want to fucking puke.
“He hit me!” she growls, her eyes flickering hot. She tries to sit up to go attack him, but Lo keeps his hand on her shoulder, forcing her down.
“I have her,” I tell Lo, and I swiftly cradle her in my arms. She holds onto my bicep, not trying to go after the guy. Lo passes her the ice, and she keeps it to her cheek, silent again.
“How bad is it?” she asks. “Oh my God, the wedding pictures.” She grimaces. “What an asshole!” She growls again.
“There’s such thing as Photoshop,” I tell her with an even-tempered voice. I hate that she’s hurt, and another guy was the cause. From the sound of it, he wasn’t even a heckler.