Then one of them turns toward me.
Oh, no. Not happening, buddy.
He’s tall, clean-cut in a stockbroker kind of way, dark eyes, brown hair slicked back. He slides in too close, an arm coming around my hip like he owns me.
“What’s your name?” His vodka breath is sticky against my cheek.
I try to shift away, pulling his hand off. “Emily. And I’m not interested.”
His grip tightens.
“You sure?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Positive.” I push harder this time, prying him off and stepping away. “Excuse me.”
I head back toward the VIP section, but I hear him right behind me.
“Hey, what’s your problem? You’re lucky I even came over. You’re like the least attractive one in that group.”
His words rock me, shame blooming in my chest. My mother used to say the same things. Always told me I was the chubby one, the ugly one, while my sister was the pretty one, the one worth a damn.
But I won’t let this asshole get to me. He’s not going to break me.
I keep walking, not saying anything, but his hand grips my arm. Rough. Tight.
Pain shoots up my wrist as I whip around and toss the water in his face without thinking. It splashes over his hair and collar, soaking his shirt.
He stumbles back, sputtering, “You little bitch! Do you know what you just did? This is Armani?—”
I don’t wait to hear the rest. I turn and run. My eyes blur with tears as I shove through the crowd, shooting Mandy a quick text.
Sloane
Bathroom. One of the guys is an asshole. Be right back.
The last thing I want is her seeing me cry on her birthday.
The women’s restroom has a line wrapped around the corner.
Great!
Glancing around, I spot a sign for the staff bathroom down the hall and head toward it. I just need a minute. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere to breathe.
I knew I shouldn’t have come. What was the point? This isn’t fun at all.
I reach for the door and step inside, but before it even closes behind me, someone barrels in. Fingers tangle in my hair, yanking me back as I’m shoved against the wall, my spine hitting so hard I see stars.
It’s him. The guy I threw water on. His face is red, twisted with rage.
Shit.
“What did you think, huh?” He snarls, locking the door. “That I’d just let you run? Maybe you need to be taught a lesson.” He snaps my hair until I wince. “Think you’re better than me?”
In a split second, he covers my mouth with his palm while gripping the strap of my dress with the other, yanking it down while I struggle and scream against his palm.
Tears flood my eyes, and I fight with everything I have.
My nails claw at his skin—desperate, wild—but it only makes him angrier. He grabs at my legs, fumbling with the hem of my dress and shoving it up. His body presses harder against mine and panic smashes into me.
