More Than Sorry

14: He Rescues the Girl

ZACH

El Diablo Cantina is a dead zone.

I shouldn't be surprised the phone reception is shit—this place is literally buried underground—but I still want to pitch my phone down the stairs to this hipster hell hole the second Eden's call drops out.

I fly down the stairs two at a time, sidestepping and dodging the weary people staggering around me. The beating wail of live music grows louder the lower into hell I get. A frustrated groan rumbles from deep in my chest. Not from the burn in my calves from the brisk walk that brought me here in record time—or this noise—but from remembering my own sheer stupidity.

What was I thinking when I spilled my guts to Eden on the phone? I wasn't thinking. That was the whole damn problem.

Eden's quiet tears unraveled me. I was powerless. I panicked. One hint that my girl wasn't okay, and I was already out the door of my apartment. This shithole cocktail bar is in Barangaroo—not far from where I live on the harbor—but it wouldn't have mattered if Eden was on the other side of the world. I needed to be there for her. Simple.

And then... That call. I'm supposed to be winning Eden back, not giving her more reasons to stay away. I never did hear her response to my humiliating confession before the signal dropped out. Not that it would have mattered. My words proved everything Eden already thought of me.

Not a real man. Worthless. She settled.

My gut clenches.

Eden has always been out of my league. I never understood why she wanted a shy, awkward loser like me. Tonight proved she wants a six-foot-five mountain of muscle with a movie star smile. She wants confidence. Someone who doesn't stare at her in awe like some dumb love-struck teenager.

Eden wants... the footballer.

The memory of his big tree trunk arm around her shoulders is scorched in my brain. Something corrupt and ugly awoke in me when I saw her with him. Something primal. One punch from the footballer, and I would have been down for the count. I didn't care. I risked his wrath when I dared to touch Eden's hand. I would have risked even more. Touching Eden for the first time in over a month was worth a beating.

My feet land at the bottom of the stairs, and I stride into the shadows of the never-ending underground bar. The beat of the music is relentless in my ears, and the thick crowd strangles my lungs. I have truly arrived in introvert hell.

My eyes slowly adjust to the haze of the dim, golden lights as I scan the bar. Outlines of people crowd every corner, every table. Everywhere is a hiding place.

Where is Eden?

I dig my phone out of my trouser pocket and redial Eden's number. I let out a defeated sigh. Call failed. Again. We talked a few minutes ago. There's only one way in and out of this hell hole. If Eden had left, we would have passed each other. She must still be here... Somewhere.

As I weave in and out of the crowd huddling around the bar, my eyes land on a familiar face. Yvette. The dark haze doesn't dull the glinting gold of her dress. Her head is thrown back in laughter and—

I stop dead in my tracks.

A waitress holding a tray of colorful cocktails nearly barrels into me. I mumble a polite apology as I scramble out of her way, but my eyes are still lasered on the back corner of the bar.

Yvette. The footballer. His big meaty paws are all over her gold dress, and his slobbery mouth devours her neck. The way she laughs, wriggling and arching her back into him, suggests she loves it.