Un-Tying the Knot {h.s.}

Chapter 69

I can't believe I'm doing this. Stepping out of the town car and into the balmy summer night, my brain screams at me to stop, to turn around and tell the driver to take me home. But my body doesn't listen, my heart taking its misguided steps to the front door where one mention of who I work for has me past the bouncer at the door and up a flight of stairs towards VIP.

What I find there causes my jaw to drop. The air is dense with smoke, the smell of Cuban cigars mixed with a hint of marijuana assaulting my senses and making me choke. The room is dimly lit, but I can still see the naked girls grinding and writhing against men on couches, some doing more than just dancing, and I can feel my heartbeat ratchet up, pushing against my throat at the thought of what I might find here.

I almost turn around then, almost make my way right back down the stairs and out into the car, telling the driver to take me home, but I hesitate, and the moment of hesitation is all I need, conjuring up excuses and reasons why Harry would need my help. I never could get a hold of Nick, and who else would come out to Downtown LA in the middle of the night to get him?

I do my best to keep my eyes on the floor and my scarf covering my mouth, ignoring the catcalls and the hands that brush against me as I pass men too drunk to know what they're doing. I search the room, trying to look for him — but avoid seeing anything at the same time, the music loud enough to rattle my teeth, my body set on edge. I shouldn't be here.

I nudge my way past a couple making out, finally making it to the back of the room where couches line the walls, and even though it's barely lit, my cheeks still flame at the bodies moving against one another, the sounds around me. I turn, my heart hammering, stomach churning — and that's when I see him, crumpled and half hanging off the side of a chaise lounge. Panic seizes me, tripping over empty bottles on the floor as I make my way to him, grabbing his face and trying to pull him upright.

I say his name, patting his face gently, and his jaw sags, head lolling on his neck. His hair is a wild slick on his head, his clothes rumpled and wet, and his shirt is unbuttoned nearly to his navel, twisted around his body. His undershirt is stained with brown and yellow liquid and the strong stench of alcohol radiates off of him. I hold his face, trying to keep his head steady, and I can see that someone has written "Eleanor's Bitch" in pen on one of his cheeks.

"HARRY!" I yell, patting his face a little harder, and he stirs, groaning, eyes fluttering open to gaze at me blankly.

"'ivvy?" he questions blearily, struggling to sit up, and I put my hands on his shoulders to steady him.

"Are you alright?" I question, holding his face in my hands, trying to get his hazy eyes to focus on mine.

"Yeah," he replies, his voice thick, as if he'd just come out of a sleep he'd been in for hours — blinking around, trying to focus his eyes.

The last thing he remembers is Rajiv setting a line of tequila shots in front of him, telling him to stay occupied as he pulled a dancer into his lap, a smattering of stars tattooed down her spine. One right after another he threw them back, watching those stars gyrate and roll, twist and spiral until blurred... and then there was Olivia. In his mind, anyway.

He looks at me then, my green eyes lined in black, lashes splaying out in a delicate fan, and that little line is drawn between my brows; the one that shows up when Eleanor is particularly nasty, or when he makes a flippant comment about something he's unhappy with in his life. I'm concerned, frowning, my lips full and red, and he feels the urge to lean in and kiss me then, his hand moving to cup my cheek.

I jump, standing back from him, and he looks up at me, taking in the black satin of my dress with the sculpted short sleeves, the neckline plunging — but not as far as the zippered front bodice would allow. I'm looking at him uncertainly before shaking my head, reaching for his elbows.