Harley was ever the social butterfly and was soon mingling in the crowd, leaving Amalie to fend for herself. Just over a year ago this would have terrified her yet now she simply smiled and wandered off herself. She was bombarded with congratulations about Fox’s first win and she was, for once in her life, allowing herself to bask in the attention. She was proud of her little white colt and she’d worked damn hard to get him to where he was and she’d continue working damn hard to keep him climbing up the ladder. By the looks of things she’d miss out on Dubai but she’d have other opportunities and she’d make sure he was ready for them.
The night had started so well and she had been enjoying herself, it was when the second or third round of alcohol came out that things started going awry. Amalie, through no fault of her own, had been drinking since she was young although she didn’t make a habit out of it she still had a high tolerance enough to still have her clear head even when some other young men were starting try guess the colour of her underwear. That was usually when she’d roll her eyes and just leave but this occasion seemed to be one of the exceptions.
Amalie had been standing to the side, a surprisingly decent scotch in her hand (Scottish Talisker single malt, red oak cask, of course) simply observing the rest of the party go by. She often made a habit of this, taking a break to sit and watch the world go by, making sure to note where everyone important was (Harley was next a table by the window having clearly just told a joke or some funny stories to the three other jockeys beside him as all four with laughing heartily) while taking the time to gather her thoughts and wits. Really, she’d picked a less than ideal spot: it was more secluded and out the way than she should have been but she had been wanting to look inconspicuous. She rather deliberately didn’t want disturbed while she gingerly sipped her scotch and contemplated life. Of course, any and all body language and social cues are lost on drunk minds.
He wasn’t ugly. He probably knew it too. He wasn’t... unpleasant either, at first. He was just an irritant and most importantly wasn’t Harley. Amalie, however, still endeavoured to be polite and did entertain a conversation (what could be loosely described as such anyway) with the noticeably intoxicated young man while still actively trying to slink away.
“You got a boyfriend, beautiful?”
Does that line actually work? Amalie wondered, loosing a little faith in her gender if it ever did. “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.” She answered curtly and rather more harshly than she’d intended, already grown annoyed of his company and the strong reek of some American beer she couldn’t name.
“He here?” The guy - no, boy - that she hadn’t gotten the name of (he’d slurred it and she didn’t care to remember so sue her) slumped against the wall in a way he must’ve believed was roguish and attractive, judging by the grin on his face and Amalie resisted outright rolling her eyes. Instead she looked down, took another subtle step away, and took another sip of drink as her eyes darted across to where Harley stood with, Sod’s law, his back turned and blissfully still chatting away.
“Y-yes.” She cursed inwardly at the voice crack, betraying her traitorous nerves. At a time like this, why couldn’t she just suavely turn to this guy, tell him she’s taken and saunter off to stand next to Harley with a sexy sway of her hips (because she knew damn well these jeans made her look great, Freya had all but designed her social wardrobe around it and practically packed for her whenever ‘a date with Prince Charming’ might happen) clearly stating ‘you can look but you can’t touch’?
Because she wasn’t Freya or Izzy, that’s why.
The damn drunk had backed her into a corner, making it almost impossible for her to leave without having some sort of contact with the guy. She was pretty much ignoring him, trying to remain composed while searching for her phone to ‘summon’ Harley in hopes of having him come to get this guy off her back, silently cursing herself for letting him corner her almost without her knowing.
This guy probably didn’t even realise it either, he’d just gotten lucky.
She scowled at him, realising he was talking to her and politeness wasn’t getting the point across. “What’s with the look, sunshine? Tha’ don’ look good on ya.”
“You don’t look good on me either,” she retorted without thinking, regretting it almost instantly. Before she could even type out the word ‘HELP’ her arm was suddenly pinned to her side as the boy pulled her flush against him. She gagged, the alcohol now filling all her senses and very much not in a good way. Alarm bells screamed in her head and she was getting very close to disregarding her promise to keep collected. “Let me go!”
“Aw, c’mon, dahlin’, don’ be like tha’. I just wanna talk, is all.”
“Speaking English would be a start.” She snapped, pushing and trying to twist away from the hand that was wandering way too low for comfort - scratch that, everything about this guy was way too low for comfort.
“You got a real sexy accent.” He quipped, a cocky lopsided grin on his face. Damn, she noted, that would be a really handsome face if he was making it for any other girl under different circumstances. Pity it’s nearly always the handsome ones that screw up their chances - again what did she do to deserve the seemingly singular handsome guy in the world that didn’t turn out to be a complete creep?
She didn’t get distracted and completely miss the fact that the creep with his arms around her was leaning in far, far too close, that’s what.
Oh wait - yes she did.
Creepy Boy’s lips were maybe an inch from hers before it happened. Suddenly he was yanked away, a sound somewhere between a grunt and a girlish yelp being drawn from his throat as he flew backwards onto a table that, predictably and oh-so-satisfyingly crumpled under the sudden weight, the echos of shocked gasps and glasses clattering and shattering on the floor sounding around them. Thankfully only the immediate area seemed to notice, others too drunk or too distracted to hear the commotion. Still, those who did notice were quick to stick their noses in, Creepy Boy floundering for a moment before somehow managing to find his feet. He glared up at the jockey who’d flung him into the table, clad in a familiar orange hoody, who stood like a bulldog in front of Amalie. Whatever he’d tried yelling was lost on Amalie’s ears (and everyone else’s judging by the chuckle that rippled through the growing crowd) as Harley turned around, face like bloody thunder, took her hand and pulled her out the room.
They’d barely turned into the corridor when he stopped, swing around and cupped her neck making her look at him. In those few seconds his face had completely lost that black shadow and his eyes were soft and imploring, but the tension remained. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
Of course that’d be the first thought out his head. She shook her head though she hadn’t managed to smile quite yet. “No, I’m fine. In dire need of a shower, but fine.” Whether they were intended as a tension breaker or not her words were true, she really wanted a shower right now, the smell of beer still clinging to her. It was enough that Harley’s usual scent of hay and stable was drowned out and it shocked her how much that disturbed her. Harley nodded and started pulling her back to their room, looking like he’d been appeased but was still stewing. “Thanks for coming to get me. I tried to text you but he got there before I could finish.” She mumbled, feeling embarrassed about the whole thing.
He slowed down a bit and she was surprised to see him blush - not just a cute little dusting but a full on, crimson blush that even reached his neck. “I, um... didn’t mean to cause such a scene. Or break the table. I just wanted to get him off you.” He chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back on his neck with his free hand and smiling sheepishly at her. “Guess I’ll be getting some trouble for being a bad guest.”
“But also some praise for being a good boyfriend.” She smiled now, feeling much more comfortable and slightly more human. “Maybe it was an old table. Maybe DND will chock it up to drunk jockeys and you’ll get off without too much grief.” She paused, watching as he relaxed, his grip on her hand still tight. “I’ve never seen you get jealous before. Ever.” She noted, craning her neck to better see his reaction. She wasn’t disappointed as he blushed harder before clearing his throat and shrugging.
“I’ve never had to worry about it before. There was never any need to get jealous since I know you wouldn’t do anything. It’s just... seeing another man with his hands on you... kissing you...” the dark shadow fell over his face again and his jaw tightened.
“He didn’t.”
“What?” He looked up, meeting her gaze as she smiled reassuringly and gently rubbed his hand and wrist, making him loosen up as he waited for her to elaborate.
“He didn’t kiss me. You got there in time.”
The difference that made was noticeable, a lot of the tension was still there but he was definitely happier to hear that. He still looked a little sheepish though. “Still... probably shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.”
“No, but it was pretty flattering,” she teased as they reached their room, “My Knight in Shining Princeton.”
“Your knight in shining what now?”
“Princeton,” she repeated, poking his orange hoodie, “it’s a shade of orange. Unless you’d rather be my Knight in Shining Historical Artefact again?” She teased. The inside joke had the desired affect and he grinned - oh, that grin that turned her insides to utter mush, how on God’s dear sweet earth did she even entertain the thought even momentarily that any other guy could look better than he did right at that moment - chuckling lightly, the spark back in his eyes.
“I’ll be whatever you want, Ammy.”