He raises a hand, batting away my concern. “Don’t worry, honey. I was just coming to tell you—Mama and I are heading out. It’s too crowded here. We’re going to grab a bite at Lockwood with the Harlots.” He scans the room, adds, almost offhand. “More… our sort of place.”
I drop my eyes to my hands and feel something sour and smallsettle in my chest. The only safety-net I thought I had tonight is walking out the door because it’s ‘too crowded.’
That says everything.
“Okay Papa. I’ll… see you next time you come to visit.”
My face must say it all, because he lowers his hand to my cheek, “It’s been a lovely few hours, Summer. Have a good night. We will see you real soon.”
The moment his back turns, I exhale. Just once. One breath that isn’t poisoned.
Then I hear it, a voice cutting through the chatter.
“This one’s for all the pretty ladies in the room,” the frontman announces into the microphone, voice crackling through the speakers and enveloping me in a smoky embrace.
The crowd cheers, filling the air with an electric buzz. A woman with vibrant ink decorating her arms lets out a piercing howl. Her dress clings to her curves, and she carries herself with a carefree confidence that I can't help but admire. She takes up space unapologetically, her presence loud and undeniable—a stark contrast to everything I've been taught not to be.
“Come on now,” he teases, eyes scanning the room. “I need you all on the dance floor for this one. Don’t hurt my feelings.” He flashes a toothy smile, and I suddenly freeze, captivated by the gleam of his teeth, the curve of his lips, and the mischief in his eyes.
The music swells, and a tide begins—a wave of bodies swaying toward the stage, moving as if caught in an invisible wind. Laughter rises above the pulsing beat, intertwining with the melody and lifting the atmosphere into one of collective joy.
Boots thud against the wooden floor as a few women shriek with excitement, calling out his name—Benny. I remain seated, my hands gripping the edge of the table. Of course I do. Jacob would despise seeing me on the dance floor, laughing freely and moving in ways he didn't dictate. I can already sense the bruise forming in his thoughts—a shadow waiting to bloom into a mark on my skin. I stay put, clapping along with the beat and tapping my foot, letting the rhythm seep into my bones. I keep any hint of enjoyment off my face.
Jacob leans against the bar. His eyes snap to me every fewseconds, gesturing my way, like he's marking a target. I taste metal in my mouth.
The frontman—Benny—steps down from the stage, microphone gripped in white knuckles, voice raw and bleeding into the crowd. He cuts through the bodies like a knife through water. Women claw at him, fingers grasping at his sweat-slick arms, but he shoves past them. His eyes lock onto mine, burning through the smoke.
My lungs seize. My pulse hammers against my throat as he drops to one knee before me, close enough I can smell whiskey and salt on his breath. He thrusts a hand toward me, veins standing out along his forearm.
"Dance with me, darlin'," he growls, the words vibrating straight through my sternum.
I shouldn't. I'll pay for it if I do. But something inside me—something feral and starved—lunges forward. I grab his hand. His skin burns against mine, calluses scraping my palm, electricity shooting up my arm.
I've just lit a fuse I can't unlight. A half-smile splits his face, dangerous and delectable.
"You alright?"
I nod, throat closing around any possible sound.
He places the microphone on my table and nods to the guy near the jukebox. It kicks into something slower. He leads me onto the floor, through the crowd. I can feel them watching—locals, mostly women—whispering behind their glasses, eyes darting toward the bar. Toward him.
Benny steps closer, voice low, steady.
“I know you hate this,” he says. “The stares. The noise. The way your hands shake when you’re trying to pretend that you’re fine.” He studies me, soft but unflinching. “You haven’t smiled once since you walked in—but you haven’t run, either.”
A small, deliberate pause.
“And I know he’s watching.”
My throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper.
“I know enough. I first laid eyes on you fifteen minutes ago, and I’ve seen you flinch three times.”
“I flinch all the time.”
He studies me, long and quiet. Slowly, he crouches until his face is nearly level with mine. He’s so much bigger than me, it should feel suffocating. But it doesn’t. His chin brushes the underside of my jaw. Just skin and stubble and the rough, silent question.
“You didn’t flinch just now,” he says. “Not even a little.”
