My heart stumbles over itself.
"Steph?" Harriette calls. "Can you run the trash out? We're getting full back here."
I tear my eyes away from Kevin. "Yeah. On it."
The trash bags are heavy, overstuffed with bottles and food waste from the dinner rush. I prop open the back door with my hip and haul the bags toward the dumpster in the alley behind the bar.
The night air is cool on my overheated skin, and I take a breath, grateful for a moment of quiet away from the chaosinside. Away from the congratulations and knowing looks and the weight of Kevin's gaze.
I heave the first bag into the dumpster, then reach for the second.
"There you are."
The voice comes from behind me, and I freeze.
I know that voice.
I turn, and there he is—the drunk from last night. Brown hair, an expensive watch, that same entitled smile. But tonight he's not drunk. He's stone-cold sober, and somehow that makes it so much worse.
"I've been waiting for you," he says, stepping closer.
The dumpster is at my back. The door to the bar is fifteen feet away, propped open, but it might as well be a mile.
"You need to leave," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "You're not welcome here."
"Not welcome?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's not friendly. Especially after I spent so much money in your bar."
"Our bar," I correct, taking a step sideways. "And you need to go."
He moves with me, cutting off my path to the door. "I don't think so. See, we need to talk. About your boyfriend."
The way he says the word makes my skin crawl.
"I don't know who you think you're fooling," he continues, voice hardening. "But I know you're lying. You don't have a boyfriend. You've been working here alone every night this week. If you had a man, he'd be here."
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "You need to leave. Now."
"I'm not going anywhere." He takes another step forward, and now he's close enough that I can smell his cologne—too strong,suffocating. "You embarrassed me last night. Made me look like a fool in front of everyone. I think you owe me an apology."
"I don't owe you anything."
His expression darkens. "You know, I've been nothing but nice to you. I asked you out politely. Gave you compliments. Spent good money here. And this is how you treat me?"
The entitlement in his voice, the complete lack of awareness that I'd said no repeatedly—it brings everything back. Carl's voice saying the same things. I'm nice to you. I take care of you. Why are you acting like this?
"Get away from me," I say, and my voice shakes.
"Or what?" He smiles, cruel and cold. "You'll call your fake boyfriend?"
He reaches for me.
And I can't move.
My body locks up, frozen by fear and memory and the terrible certainty that this is happening again. That I'm trapped again. That no matter how many times I say no, it won't matter.
His hand closes around my wrist—the same wrist he grabbed last night—and panic floods my system like ice water. He pulls me closer, his other arm wrapping around my waist.
"Let go!" I yank back, but his grip tightens.
