Page 107 of Take Her

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Page 107 of Take Her

After that, I tried hopping into Instagram—and was told my account was terminated.

I almost dropped my phone into the toilet.

What the fuck?

I knew things like that happened all the time, but I’d assumed they’d never happen to me. I would’ve stayed in there longer, coping with the sudden loss, if another frustrated woman hadn’t started knocking on the door.

“Sorry!” I shouted. I finished my business, washed my hands, and made it back to the table, where Junior had ordered his fourth drink, and a fresh water for me was waiting.

“Did you get bad news?” Junior asked at seeing me.

“What?” I hadn’t even tried to keep a straight face, dammit. “Oh—no. I’m just tired.” I needed to get home immediately to see if I could salvage things from my laptop. “I’m still jetlagged, if you can believe it,” I said, blowing my emotions off.

I could hardly pretend to be running an IPO and be upset about an Instagram account—but I was.

In a world that largely sucked for me, those people had been my friends. They were waiting for me when I came back from long spells without my phone, when I was being ‘guarded’ for my own safekeeping—and they were excited to see me post again. When you had to skip from place to place like I did, when any friends I made got ripped from my grasp by an embarrassing hospitalization or a move, having a handful of people who didn’t care who I was and who looked forward to seeing me, even if it was just online . . . it felt a lot like having family.

More than my actual family did, that was for sure.

My stomach squeezed with anxiety. “Yeah, I need to get home.”

“Gotcha,” Junior said, pulling out his phone. “I can call us up a ride.”

“I can get my own, thanks,” I said, jumping into my phone’s screen, to give logging in another try.

It didn’t work.

“Nah, I insist,” Junior said, slurring a little. “Actually—let’s go back to Blackwing? I’d love to give you the behind-the-scenes tour.”

After I summoned up a car, I looked up and over at him. I realized I couldn’t imagine him managing to walk down the block straight.

And actually, I might need to take him home, as drunk as he was, just to be a good person.

His attention flickered to his phone, and he sent another text, clearly expecting something in return—while my rideshare app let me know it’d found someone.

“Are you going to be okay if I leave you?” I asked him.

Junior looked up at me, laughed, and the alcoholic scent of his breath washed over me. “I’m gonna be fine,” he said, standing up. “Just—hang on?”

I watched him send another text, as the car coming for me made a drop off and turned back a few blocks away.

“I mean it, Junior. I don’t want you puking in a corner alone somewhere.”

No matter how often the thought of his father had done as much to me.

He blew me off and grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go outside.”

The outdoor air seemed to sober him up a little, and he kept looking around. “I can tell my driver to take you instead of me?—”

“No—I’m fine,” he said, more loudly before stumbling.

“Tête de noeud,” a man standing in line for the bar commented to his girlfriend.

I snapped back in French, “He may be an asshole, but it’s his bar, so be nice,” and the man’s head jerked back in surprise.

Junior tracked the conversation between us, then shoved his phone into a pocket with disgust. “I can tell you’re talking about me.”

“I just told him it was your bar,” I said, this time in English, hoping he wouldn’t try to start anything.




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