Down for the Count (Dare Me) - By Christine Bell Page 0,3
she’d saddled herself with Marty the dishrag, so it hadn’t been an issue. Hell, he’d only come because his sister’s latest boy toy had bailed, and she needed a plus one. “Listen, I—”
“Galen. Please. I can’t go back in there.” Lacey’s voice had lost the shrill gloss of panic and now sounded resigned. Beat down.
God, he was a sucker. He closed his eyes for a long moment and nodded. “Okay. I’ve got my bike, though.” He cast a dubious eye at her floor-length gown.
“We’ll make it work.” With the promise of imminent escape, she sounded stronger already. She jammed her arm through his so their elbows were locked and raised her chin. “Cat, I’ll call you later once I’m settled.”
“You threw your phone,” Galen reminded her.
“Indeed I did.” Her chin dipped a little before she rebounded like a champ. “Cat, I will e-mail you later if I can’t find a phone.”
“Cool. Love you, babe. And I promise, in a few months, after we’ve exacted our revenge, we’re going to look back at this and laugh,” Cat said.
Galen frowned and his sister shrugged. Between the two of them, they were screwing this up royally. Maybe he’d think of something good to say on the way out.
He led Lacey toward the main exit, but she tugged him toward the bar in the deserted lounge area. “One second.” She yanked her arm from his. “Excuse me, sir?” she called to the balding bartender washing glasses at an industrial-sized sink in the corner. Balancing precariously on the wooden footrest skirting the bar, she reached over the counter and plucked a bottle of champagne nestled in an ice bin. “Put this on my husband’s tab, would you? Marty Clemson, the wedding in the Rose Room.”
She didn’t wait for a response but stalked out the door with the bottle clutched in her hand.
He stared helplessly after her, then looked back to the bartender. “Can you even do that?”
The guy shrugged. “What am I going to do, chase after her? Given the look on her face, I’m going to say that seems like a bad idea.”
Galen sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a fifty. “Will that cover it?”
“Yep.”
Two seconds later, he exited the building and glanced around. Lacey had stopped at his Harley and set down the champagne. She couldn’t ride with that gown on. She’d get them both killed. They were going to have to—
He paused mid-step when Lacey reached behind her neck. What was she going to do, strip?
“Some help here?” she mumbled, grappling with the hooks down her back.
Some help here? Little Lacey Garrity wanted his help taking off her wedding dress. The shy teen his sister had forced to drink four wine coolers before she would go skinny-dipping. And even then, she’d made them all close their eyes until she was in up to her neck. This was officially the weirdest fucking day of his life. “I’m not sure exactly what the plan is, but I can tell you right now, it’s ill-advised,” he said, ignoring the baser part of him that roared to life at the thought of seeing what was under all that dress.
“Damn it,” Lacey muttered, scrabbling at the catches.
He didn’t dare smile. She might not be gangly anymore, but she was still a little awkward, in the way that a woman was when she had no true sense of her worth. But that aside, the outer packaging was right and tight. Easy enough to put it out of his mind when she was engaged to another man. Not so easy now that her relationship had disintegrated and she wanted him to help her disrobe.
“I’ll help you if you tell me what we’re hoping to accomplish. You can’t ride on the back of my bike naked. You realize that, right?”
“I have a full slip under here that comes down to my knees. It’s no more revealing than some cocktail dresses I’ve seen, so don’t worry. I won’t get us arrested.”
The emotionless resignation in her tone made him want to go back into the hall and treat Marty Clemson to the uppercut that had earned him the nickname Whalin’ Galen. One shot, right to the fucker’s nonexistent chin. But then he saw the tremble. It wasn’t much, just a little shiver of uncertainty that snaked through her and left her readable. And what he read spelled sadness. The deep, I don’t even know what to do with myself kind of pain. Damn.
At that moment, if she’d asked him to