Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,4
knows how to play. I hate that all these cocktails have made my heart go on the fritz, made me think for a second that he’s actually into me. I have to take a deep breath to calm myself down. The damn memory of that kiss in junior high keeps trying to take over my head, and the sober me knows that I’d be no good for Lucky.
“What’s up with you, anyway?” he asks, leaning into me a little. “You’re all fired up for some reason.”
He straightens and takes a swig of his beer, never taking his eyes off me. It sends a shock of desire through me like lightning, striking me right in the pants. I’m in no mood for it or his careless games. Maybe he’s forgotten that the anniversary of the worst day of my life will be here in a few days, but I haven’t.
“I gotta go make a phone call.” I grab my purse off the bar and slide down from my stool. I need to go find a quiet alcove where I can hear myself talk. The place is packed now and my ears are ringing from the noise.
Lucky turns around on his stool, suddenly very interested in my plans. “Who’re you drunk-dialing?”
“What business is it of yours?” I pause, standing in front of him, as I search through my bag for my phone.
He shrugs, his hands hanging between legs that are bent up, his feet on the stool’s support rungs. “All your friends are here. Who could you possibly want to call if not one of us?”
His question pisses me off. I know what he thinks, and he might be right, but it doesn’t matter. It’s none of his business what I do with my private life. So what if I want to call the brother of the man I killed?
I glare at him, my phone dangling from my hand. “You think you guys are my only friends?”
His smile is lazy this time, dulled from the beer. “I know we are. You’re too mean to have other friends.”
“Apparently I’m not mean enough, since you think you can say that shit to my face.” I drop my purse and reach up to slap him, but he grabs my wrist and holds it inches from the cheek I was about to turn flaming red. His lazy smile hasn’t budged.
“Let go of me,” I grind out, my arm rigid.
He overpowers me and lowers my hand to my side before releasing it. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Toni.”
I don’t know exactly what he means by that, but it makes me want to squirm in my boots. “Oh, shut up.” I snag my purse from the floor and walk away with quick strides.
How dare he. How dare he suggest I don’t have friends, tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, stop me from slapping him when he deserves to be slapped. I want to do a one-eighty and march right back over there to give him a lesson good and proper, but I don’t because he’s too sharp for me right now. He needs to drink another few beers before I’ll be able to get one over on him.
I make my way to the back of the bar, where there’s an alcove hosting an old payphone that doesn’t work anymore. Aside from a bathroom stall, this is the quietest place in the whole joint. As I scroll through my contacts, my tea-addled brain is assuring me that this is a great idea. I’m going to call Rowdy and apologize for shooting his brother five times in the chest. I grit my teeth hard to keep the emotions that want to take over in check, and my chin trembles with the effort.
Maybe if I can get one person in that family to forgive me, I could work on forgiving myself. It’s a long shot, but at this moment, with my head spinning right round like a record, baby, it seems like an awesome idea.
I press the button that will dial up his number, put the phone to my ear, and wait for the call to connect. But suddenly it’s just my fingers there at my ear and my phone is gone. It takes me a couple seconds to figure out what’s happening.
I turn around and find Lucky there, holding my cell phone in his hand and smiling at me. He looks at the screen as he presses the red button to disconnect the call. “Rowdy LeGrande.” His