“Thanks.”
Smiling, he drops a hand to the back of my thigh, causing me to almost spill the tray. I pass out drinks as quickly as I can, trying not to cringe when his hand runs up and down the back of my leg.
I hate this feeling. On one side, it feels so good to be touched. I miss it. Crave it, too. But getting touched this way makes me uncomfortable, and the push and pull of those sensations makes my head swirl. I don’t know how to feel. Part of my brain screams,I want touch. Another part demands the touchesIwant, not just any forced on me.
I pass the guy the extra shot he ordered, and he smiles, squeezing right above the back of my knee and patting his lap with the other hand. “This one is for you. Come take a seat and have a shot. I promise it’s too busy in here for anyone to notice.”
I shake my head, aiming for diplomatic. “Can’t drink on the clock.” As I make to move back, his hand tightens before squeezing my ass.
I had to go to Deny yesterday. The bruises are still fresh, and my inner terror is right under the surface. It didn’t flare up with Matt. If anything, that felt warm and safe. This guy is different. He’s right, though. No one is looking, and the easiest thing to do is comply.
I would have,before. It would have been fun. I would not have thought twice about it.
Now, I feel the pressure, the obligation, to allow one more set of hands on me. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to or that we are in a bar full of people. Desperation crawls up my spine. I’m so tired of doing what I don’t want to do. So... tired. In so many ways.
But I need this job.
The guy smirks. I might have at one time said his well-bred frat boy thing was my type. His hand moves up, like he’s going to touch my skin under my shirt. I freeze, unsure of the correct next move.
“This table looks familiar. You all enjoying yourselves?” The voice is Bishop’s, and the whole table gazes at him adoringly. I’m not sure if that is because of his reputation at Rollins, or because Jordy is right, and the Mann brothers and their significant others are great-looking men.
A large, warm hand touches my shoulder, just long enough to tell me someone is there, and pulls me back from the now-slack grip of the handsy guy. It’s Matt, judging by the size.
Warm butterflies swim through my stomach.
“Great party and cool brewpub,” the handsy guy says, with a slight frown when he notices his hand is left hanging in the air.
“Good to hear,” Bish says smoothly. “I expect you all can have a good time and be on your best behavior.” Bish gives a congenial smile to the table, but Matt glowers at the handsy guy.
“Totally,” one of the girls at the table agrees quickly, with a giggle.
Matt pulls me away, subtly, but Bishop gives the group a quick, dangerous look reminding everyone at the table he’s only aformerFBI agent by a matter of months. Jordy says most of the kids at Rollins don’t know if they believe that part, but I’m guessing they do now.
“Great,” Bishop says as I make my way back to the bar. “Let me introduce you to my fiancé, then. He owns this place.”
“You all right?” Matt’s voice is low and close to my ear.
“Everything is fine.” I don’t mean it. My hands are shaking slightly. Not from hunger or blood sugar this time. No, this is frustration. I put them in my pockets. “It’s nothing.”
Matt wants to argue, but he looks over to Quinn and Bishop, done talking with the table of college kids. His hand still rests gently on the nape of my neck. Before he can stop me, I slip out of his touch and his presence.
If he wants to talk, he will know where to find me. I need some air.
“I’m taking my break.” Jordy nods, and I head to the kitchen and the door leading out to the back dumpster area before anyone can stop me or see the tears welling up.
I hate crying. It is such a useless emotion, such a waste of time. And I hate how when I’m angry, that’s my go-to. Stupid tears.
Weak. Just like the rest of me.
I slump against the outside wall, sipping a soda I grabbed on my way out. I’m shivering. It’s cold out here tonight, and my jacket got taken with my food when someone raided my room, again, during my freezing-cold shower last week.
At least the room is not the shelter, I remind myself, although my closet with no heat and a communal bathroom might not be much better.
At least the bus between Bear Valley and Mirror Lake is free and almost always running.
At least I can work the late shift so I don’t have to sleep in the restrooms at the bus stop when I miss the cut-off time for the shelter. Tips mean more than safety these days.
Maybe a coat or thick hoodie in the storage room is my size. Luckily, lots of kid stuff gets left behind, which fits me just fine. I haven’t had luck finding shoes, and mine are the too-small ones I have had for about a year now. They are not cut out for the snow, so my damp feet burn in the icy wind and also from the blisters.
