A guy brings our drinks over on a platter, and when he hands Graham his, I notice that Graham spends several long seconds looking at it while the waiter hands out everyone else’s. I take mine, and after a tiny sip, slide it onto the table in front of me. I’m going to do my best to turn it into something that’s forgotten.
Just as the waiter turns to leave, Graham grabs hold of his forearm, stopping him from leaving. The waiter regards his hand, then looks over Graham, I think trying to decide who would hit the other harder in a stand-off.
“I ordered a full drink, and you brought me this,” Graham says, a slight slur to his drunken speech. He’s still very confident sounding, but sloppy around the edges.
The waiter looks down at the drink in Graham’s hand. It’s maybe an inch and a half from being full, a sip short at the most.
“I’m not sure what you want me to do,” the waiter says. I notice Graham’s jaw twitch and his neck tense as he shoves the drink into the waiter’s hand.
“I want you to go get me the right fucking drink!” he seethes. The waiter stares at him, blinking, I think a little stunned and waiting for everyone to laugh like this is a big joke. Only nobody does. I notice Graham’s friends have all moved on and are talking with each other, ignoring this display, which makes me think this is probably normal behavior. “I mean…am I wrong?”
He looks to me for support, and I shake my head slightly, my palms instantly sweating. I want to leave. I want to leave right now.
He turns to one of his friends, nudging him on the arm and motioning to the drink, now held out between them by the waiter.
“Dude, that’s crap, right? I ordered a full fucking drink, and this asshole brings me this. I’m not paying for that. Am I wrong?” His voice is carrying over most of our corner of the bar now, and several people are looking at us. I notice the waiter straighten his posture, rolling his back muscles, gearing up for whatever’s next.
Graham’s friend chuckles and laughs out yeah in response before returning to the conversation he was in before.
“I’ll bring you a new one,” the waiter finally says, muttering to himself as he turns away.
Graham’s eyes drift hazily over to me, and his stare is intense and instantly causes my body to heat up and my back to sweat.
“Did that embarrass you?” he asks.
It takes me a moment to catch up to what he said; I’m too busy wondering if it’s a joke, or if he’s teasing. His mouth never cracks a smile, though.
“A little,” I admit.
He holds his stare on me, then lets his eyes trail down my body in a way that makes me clench my knees together and flex my leg muscles, ready to kick and scream and run.
“It shouldn’t embarrass you,” he says.
I don’t make eye contact. As I step closer to the table and run my finger along my drink as a distraction, I shrug and whisper “Maybe.”
I can feel his stare on me, and it makes me mindful of every movement I make. I pull my small purse up to the tabletop and take out my compact, looking in the mirror even though I have no need. I clip it shut again, then move my phone to a place I can view it inside my purse. I slide the screen on and check the time, not quite midnight. I groan inwardly at the thought that I might be stuck here for a while.
My finger is poised over the contacts button when I feel Graham’s breath at my neck.
“You calling that Harper dick?” he questions. There’s a bite to his tone.
“I was checking the time and just making sure my roommate didn’t need anything,” I smile.
I pretend.
His heavy stare lands on me again, and somehow he feels bigger. His shirt is opened at the top, his tie now loose on both sides. It’s funny how this look can be both sexy and repulsive—depending on who and when.
“You know I’m going to fight him?” he asks.
I pinch my brow, wondering what he means. Is he seriously challenging Andrew to a duel? I’m not sure who I’d bet on if he was. I know who my heart would pick.
“I was the Sigma national champ, last year. I’m trying to stay in fighting shape. It’s my hobby, and when I found out Harper liked to box, I thought…well…” he says, his lips slightly curled into a grin.
“I don’t really care for boxing,” I say, wishing the liquid in my glass were water so I could drink it.
Graham’s stare lingers a moment or two longer, then he steps past me to join his circle of friends at the next table, putting an arm around one of the guys. I turn so my back is to him, and I breathe out slowly, clutching my purse in my hands again, convincing them not to tremble. I glance around the bar, to the dozens of plush seating areas with well-dressed couples nestled close to each other, groups of women taking shots and laughing loudly, men running fingers up girls’ legs, teasing them, flirting—fondling.