Simple Perfection (Perfection #2)(47)
Author: Abbi Glines

Woods

Jimmy had called to tell me I needed to get Grant from the bar. He had drunk too much and was now calling my new golf pro a douchebag. Not a good thing. He’d regret that tomorrow.

I walked past Jimmy, who was shaking his head with an amused grin on his face. Grant was leaning on the bar, trying to convince the new bartender that he was a congressman and demanding another drink.

"I got this," I told the new guy, who looked very relieved.

Grant spun around and almost fell over a stool. "Hey, Woods! It’s you. Get me another shot, buddy," he slurred. Grant only called people buddy when he was drinking.

"Not a chance in hell," I replied. "Come on, you’re going home. You’re done for the night."

Grant jerked his arm out of my grasp. "I don’t wanna go home. I wanna stay here. I like it here. It’s better here. If I go back to my place"—he lowered his voice, although he was still talking really loudly—"she will come."

"Who is she?" I asked, grabbing his arm and jerking him up. I started pushing him toward the door before he could protest this time.

"She is she," he said, whispering loudly again.

"She is she? Really? Man, how much have you had to drink?"

Once we were outside, Grant looked around and realized we had been walking. "Aww, damn. You tricked me. We left."

"Why don’t you want to go to your place? You need to sleep this off."

Grant looked around us like he was looking for someone who might be hiding and waiting for him to tell a highly important secret.

"She’s Nan. Always Nan. And she’s pissed. When she gets pissed she gets possessive, then naughty, then she does things and I end up letting her, but now I don’t want to let her ’cause I don’t even like her. So I can’t go home."

Nothing he had said made sense except that he didn’t like Nan. Neither did the rest of the world. I was pretty damn sure there was a Twitter hashtag that said #NanHater.

"You want to crash in one of the rooms here?" I asked him as he stumbled and sat down on a bench.

"Can I? She can’t find me here. Can she?"

I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him this drunk since boarding school. Nan had done a number on him. "You would think by now you would have learned your lesson about messing around with Nan. She’s poison. Why even go near her?"

Grant let out a loud sigh and leaned forward.

"Do not puke on the damn brick. It’s a country club, dickhead, not a bar."

He lifted his head and his eyes were glassy. "It ain’t Nan that’s making me drink. It’s her. She’s so damn . . . so damn . . . hell, I don’t know what she is. She messed up my head. She f**ked me over, literally. She won’t see me. Won’t talk to me. Nothing. She’s guarded like the damn queen. Bunch of damn rock stars act like I’m a problem. I’m not a problem. I just want to see her. I need to explain."

What the hell was he talking about? "I’m lost, dude. You’re not making sense anymore. Come on, let’s get you a room."

"She’s got these legs that go on forever. Lots of legs . . . lots of ’em. They’re soft. So f**king soft," he muttered as I jerked him up and walked him over to my truck.

"Nan?"

Grant spit. "Fuck no. I told you this ain’t about Nan. She’s the evil bitch that f**ked it up. She f**ks up everything."

I put him in and closed the door, then got in on my side and rolled down the windows. "If you need to hurl do it outside of my truck," I told him before cranking the engine.

"She’s got these legs," he said again.

"Yeah, you told me."

"You don’t understand, they’re like legs from f**king heaven."

Someone had done a number on him. I was thankful it wasn’t Nan. That was the only thing I was thankful for at the moment. If I could get him out of my truck without his puking, I’d be thankful for that, too.

"She was a virgin," he whispered.

Wait . . . what? "Now I know we aren’t talking about Nan."

Grant leaned his head back on the leather seat. "A virgin. She didn’t tell me, either. Now she won’t talk to me. I need her to talk to me."

So Grant took a virgin and some rock stars are holding her captive. That doesn’t make any . . . oh shit.

"Grant, are you talking about Harlow?"

"Yeah, who the f**k did you think I was talking about?"

That might just be worse than Nan.

Yeah . . . it’s definitely worse than Nan.

He was in deep shit. Nan would never let that happen. Ever.