Page 47 of Lucas

I rush over to steady him, heart pounding. “Are these all your empties?”

“Sure are, darling,’” he slurs.

My mouth fills with bile. I think back through all of our dates and wonder if I’ve been too naïve to see that his drinking is out of hand. But I’ve known some alcoholics and I don’t think that’s what this is. Lucas doesn’t drink to get drunk, doesn’t need a shot in the morning, or a cocktail to calm his nerves.

Something triggers these benders, and I think I have an idea what it is.

It’s the elephant in the room.

His dark past, things he’s never discussed with me before…

A group of jocks huddle at the table next to us, caught up in their verbal descriptions of play for what I assume is a college football tournament. I shift my chair to get out of the way, and it catches on one of the guy’s ankles. He shoots me a dark glare.

“Don’t you look at her like that,” Lucas snaps.

Unease begins to uncoil in my chest. I should have trusted my instincts and just walked away, let him drink himself into a stupor and deal with the fall out in the morning. But the truth is, as happy as Lucas makes me, this—whatever drives his temper—needs resolution, or we’re not going to make it. I can’t keep walking around on eggshells. That isn’t fair.

The jock stands up. “You got a beef pal?”

Fuck me. I put my hand on Lucas’s arm. “Come on babe, let’s get out of here.”

He yanks his wrist away. “I’m not done drinking.”

“That’s obvious.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “We’ve got lots of alcohol at the house, though.”

A full wine cellar and then some, but something tells me that booze isn’t what Lucas is after. There’s something about this bar, of all the drinking holes in the city, that brings out his temper faster than anywhere else. It’s the most logical place for him to let off some steam.

“You want me to just let him talk to you that way?” He gestures toward the jock, who has thankfully returned to his seat.

“He didn’t say anything to me.”

Lucas downs another shot. “He looked at you funny.”

“Because I hit him accidentally with my chair,” I say, exasperated. “It was my fault. You don’t always have to leap to my defense, Lucas. Let me fight some of my own battles, or at least try.”

I recognize that I’m not just talking about this moment. I’m grateful that Lucas always seems to have my back, but lately, it’s become overbearing. Like, I can’t even talk about an employee whose said something to rub me the wrong way without him leaping down the guy’s throat. I’ve started to clam up, nervous that I’ll say something to set Lucas off and cause another fight.

That doesn’t seem like the best way for us to move forward, not with the constant hum of fear in the back of my mind.

Lucas tries standing again, but ends up falling forward. A couple of shot glasses hit the ground, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. This is all starting to feel like déjà vu. Especially when the same jock who glared at me is now sniggering at Lucas.

“Gotta love a guy who can’t handle his liquor, huh?”

I spin around. “Back off.”

It’s meant to be a warning, but it only adds fuel to the sparks already flying. He laughs, cruelly, and mutters. “Worse, a guy that needs his old lady to speak up for him.”

Lucas explodes out of his chair, sending the table flying. The bartender flinches, signals for the bouncers. I stand back, knowing better this time than to get in the way.

The jock doesn’t waste any time. He lunges at Lucas, full force.

Lucas blocks the jab, but his balance is off. He stumbles forward and hits his hip on the table. And then the punches are flying.

Again.

Luckily, I can tell they’re all too drunk to really hurt one another, and the bouncers are already moving to break it up.

Tears form in my eyes.