Page 25 of One Night with Number Nineteen

Then I leave.

Or I try to, anyway.

Oh, I get into my car, and I turn on the ignition, and I think about all the shit I need to do.

But I can’t make myself drive away. Not as the parking lot empties out. Not as Faye and Gray and the others leave. Not as Lainey comes out, a bag in one hand, a smile on her face, and⁠—

“Fuck, no,” I growl, popping open the door and jumping out.

The cool winter air slaps at my face, but I barely feel it.

Because another asshole has his hands on Lainey.

“Don’t touch me!” she cries, swinging out with her bag.

The guy grunts right as I reach them and I grab his shoulder, shove him back. His eyes are crazed, something terrifying rippling across his face and he launches himself at me.

“She’s mine!”

And suddenly, I’m fending off fists and a big body and trying not to hurt this strange, deranged man.

Then I wonder why I’m bothering.

I cock back my arm and punch the fucker in the face.

He drops like a bag of rocks, hands clutching at his nose.

“Lainey—” I begin, immediately turning toward her. Only she’s not there. “What⁠—?”

But, I realize a heartbeat later, she’s coming back with help in the form of bookstore staff, her phone glued to her ear.

“Are you okay?” she asks breathlessly.

I drop my foot onto the asshole’s back, shove him back down when he tries to get up. “I’m fine. You?”

A jerky nod. “I dropped my phone, but Caitlyn”—she hitches a thumb to the woman next to her—“called the police. They’re on their way.”

I open my mouth, intending to ask her who the fuck this asshole is but⁠—

Sirens echo through the air.

The next hour is filled with questions from police officers and giving our official statements (and finding out that Lainey has no idea who the man is). Then we stand back and watch as they shove the fucker into the back of the cruiser, as the detective tells us there’s nothing at this point to indicate this was anything other than a random attack.

Not that it makes it any better.

Lainey hasn’t stopped shaking.

And even though I’m no good for her, I step close and wrap my arm around her shoulders as she finishes talking to the officer.

“Are you okay?” I ask as the detective moves off.

“Yeah,” she lies, shaking, her hands clenched together so tightly her knuckles are standing out.

“Lanes,” I murmur.

Her throat works. “I’m fine,” she says, shoving back her hair, the curls immediately bouncing forward again.

“You don’t look fine.”