The figure was tall and broad. His face was a blur in my drunken vision. “Annabel?” he said. His voice was not Carson's. It was deeper, more of a rumble. The voice was familiar.
“Fred?” I whispered, my voice thick.
“Yeah, it’s me. What are you doing here? I was worried about you.”
His hand was warm on my shoulder, a solid, grounding weight in my spinning world.
“I… I just needed to get away,” I said, my head dropping forward.
The world spun again, the neon lights of the bar swirling into a nauseating kaleidoscope of color.
“From what? From who?” he asked, his voice now laced with a protective anger that was both fierce and comforting.
I looked up at him. I couldn't focus on his face, but I could see the concern in his eyes, a genuine worry that sliced through the alcohol-fueled ha
