"I don't give a shit,” I say, cleanly, precisely. “It does not matter to me.Youno longer matter to me. I want you to go away and find some other women to harass. So, get your shoulder off the door and let me out of here.”
His energy changes again, his face red and lips firmed into a thin line as he leaves closer, trying to intimidate me. He stinks of Hugo Boss cologne and entitlement.
“There's no reason to be such a smug bitch,” he rasps. "Always thinking that you're above everybody else. The perfect Ava,never making a mistake. Well, the rest of us arehuman!”He pokes his finger aggressively at his chest, and I hope it hurts. “And as a fellow human being, you should understand that people make mistakes. Errors in judgement. Ideserveunderstanding.”
"There's a lot of things that you deserve,” I say. “Just step away from the door.”
Something’s sizzling at the base of my spine, anxiety, worming through my nervous system, making me wonder if this man could overcome his practiced, rich boy manners and do something like punch me.
I really should've taken more than two self-defense classes with Priya.
“Step away from the door,” I repeat, attempting to sound calm and soothing. “We're just gonna pretend this never happened and go on about our day. Okay?” Also, I'm going to murder Doris from Cardiology for setting me up like this. Why would she do this to me?
For a minute, I don't think he's going to move. His hand comes up, pressing against the door and his other one clenches into a fist.
“You do not want to do this,” I say, that frisson of unease has turned into a full-blown series of fireworks sparking through my system, adrenaline speeding into my bloodstream so fast that I feel dizzy. This room is too hot. My feet hurt in these high heels. The lights should be lower, not so glaring, and-
Fucking. Focus.
Then he laughs, an ugly, coarse laugh that I've never heard from him before but hell, tonight is a night for surprises, nowisn't it? “Fine,” he hisses. “You're wasting my time. You deserve everything you’re going to get."
“Well, if that includes you getting the hell away from the door, I'll be happy to accept it.” I square my shoulders, trying to look firm and authoritative. I want nothing more than to get the hell out of this room and make my legs stop shaking.
He makes me wait another minute, smug and pleased that his oh, so superior power and strength will keep me from leaving without his say-so. Finally, he drops his hand from the door, turning back towards the table and picking up his drink.
“Get the fuck out, then.”
Walking out, I quietly close the door behind me, my hand shaking. I didn't realize his ego was so vast and his entitlement so never-ending that he really thought this creepy little stunt would work.
Part of me would really like to stay at Heaven and Hell, take my mind off Kevin and that private room by enjoying the dance floor and maybe one of those tasty looking drinks that I saw a waitress carrying across the room. But that's only 25% of me. The other 75% wants to scuttle home and pull on my favorite pair of sweats and pretend tonight never happened.
"Are you okay?”
I let out a little yelp, pressing my hand to my chest. “Excuse me?” I look up and see a giant of a man, wearing an expensive suit and looking concerned. His green eyes seem sincere, which is nice.
“I'm one of the owners here,” he hastens to explain. “I just want to make sure that you're all right. You look a little shook up."
"I am," I manage. "Fine, I mean. Thank you. A downer of a night, but certainly not the club's fault.”
“Okay…” he says, still eyeing me keenly. “Have a good night. I can have the doorman call an Uber for you?"
“That would be nice, thank you.” I just want to leave. I don’t want to be here when that son of a bitch comes out of his special private room.
Back home and in my softest sweats, I allow myself one glass of wine. Alcohol and my ADHD meds don’t like each other, but I think I earned it tonight.
I have forty-three tabs open on my computer and I vary between cute cat clips, an instructional video about a new approach to suturing open wounds, and like the last twenty-six days, refreshing my email constantly to see if Cynthia has sent anything. I don’t let myself think about Kevin and his mean, slitted-eye glare.
Just as I’m finishing the last sip of wine, my email notification cheerfully ‘dings!’ and I scramble to open it.
Dear Ava,
How are you? Managing this new expansion is a nightmare, but I’m happy to tell you that your application for the low-income section was approved.
I’m not supposed to do this, but we have a moving company that we offer as a free service for our higher-end sales, but I’m willing to bet you don’t have a lot to move. They can pencil you in as early as next Wednesday. Why don’t we meet then and I’ll walk you through the apartment?
Again, congratulations on your acceptance and welcome to McManus Heights!
Warmly, Cynthia Watkins
