Brian smiled, twisted his wrist so he could hold my fingers in his palm, and questioned, “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“’Cause you’re trouble and he was a badass, just like me. He would’ve appreciated that.”
Brian laughed deep in his chest.
“And ’cause you make me the happiest I think I’ve ever been,” I added. “I think he would’ve appreciated that, too.”
His grip that was already holding firm grew firmer, putting pressure on the bones in my fingers, but nothing I couldn’t stand so I held back and stared, letting him see my happiness and taking his for my own, admiring his warm, contented smile until it was fading and he didn’t have it anymore, not even a shadow of it because his eyes had left mine and were now focusing hard on something behind me.
He grew taller in the booth. His shoulders and arms tensing with flexed muscle and his chest moving air more powerfully.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, starting to turn my head when his grip went from tolerable pressure to unbearable stress and I gasped, struggling to pull away when my fingers started aching.
“Brian,” I urged through a tight voice.
“Get up. We gotta go,” he grated, sounding urgent.
He released my hand and stood quickly, pulled some cash out of his wallet and tossed it on the table, then moved beside me, grabbed underneath my arm, and yanked me out of the booth.
“Brian!” I yelped, startled, gripping his bicep for balance. “What—”
“Now, babe. Move.”
He spun me around and then his strong arm was pulling me close and hurrying us through the restaurant toward the door.
“What’s going on?” I asked as my feet struggled to keep up, looking from his unyielding profile to the room ahead and searching for understanding, some mad person wreaking havoc because Brian was panicked, that was clear.
There was nothing unusual about the scene in front of me. No one being held at gunpoint. No hysteria.
Families sat eating at tables or booths, the waitstaff tended to their duties, and as we made it to the front of the restaurant, I saw the hostess who seated us standing at the podium, greeting what appeared to be a family waiting to be seated.
A husband and wife and their young child, a sweet-looking boy with messy blond hair and anxious ice cream eyes that roamed the room.
His father’s hands were holding the grips on the wheelchair he sat in.
“Brian,” I tried once more over my shoulder when the arm around me became nothing more than a cold push at my lower back, urging me without affection faster to the door.
He said nothing. His hand on my spine trembled as we moved closer to the podium and the sweet-looking boy, the hostess, and the mother and father, whose head turned and eyes noticed our escape, finding not my own face but the man beside and slightly behind me.
It was not an unfamiliar glance or a passing scan your eyes did out of reflex. The fleeting meet of gazes in a crowded room, that wasn’t this. Not even close.
The man saw Brian and recognized him, the shadow of familiarity passing over his face and holding there.
Those eyes of his widened. He knew Brian.
Maybe not well and maybe not enough to be friendly, but my boy was no stranger. That was certain.
Brian didn’t slow or acknowledge this man or his family. He didn’t even glance in their direction, not once, and then they were behind us and we were leaving.
I was too confused to speak.
What the hell was happening?
With unyielding fingers pressing to the right of my spine, Brian steered me left and farther forward, shoving the front door open with his other hand and then forcing me outside and into the night.
“Brian, stop! What’s going on?” I yelled, finally finding my voice, twisting away but being captured in his arms again, arms so strong they lifted me without effort and carried me when my spine went rigid with protest and my feet started dragging gravel.
“What are you doing?” I shrieked, trying to see behind me.
“Get us out of here. Then I’ll explain,” he grumbled against my hair, crossing the parking lot in quick strides with his long legs while I stayed pressed against his body.
I struggled in his grasp.
“Syd,” he said in warning, tightening his hold.
“I don’t understand. What happened? Why are you acting like this? Was it that man?”
I asked that last question but I already knew the answer.
My boy was scared. He was scared and he was running.
“Talk to me,” I pleaded, hearing my own voice shake with worry.
We reached the Jeep before another word was said, then the passenger door was opened, and because he must’ve known there was no way I was climbing up willingly without hearing an explanation first, my choice was eliminated for me and I was put in that seat like some helpless child.
“Brian, please. You’re scaring me.”
I felt tears sting my eyes and the rattle of my whispered words battering my throat.
He paused at the door, ready to shut it, then his eyes lifted to mine and I saw the panic there in his wide irises, but I didn’t know if it was because of whatever he was taking us away from or because of what I’d just said.
I didn’t have a chance to ask.
Brian leaned inside the car and reached for me, sliding his hand to the base of my neck and gripping me there, then gently tugging me forward until he was so close I could count his lashes.
If he’d been in a trance before, he was out of it now. If he’d been too focused on his own trepidation and leaving to hear my voice or feel my struggle, I was now the only thing that existed to him.