‘Do you think you’re the first person to ever remark on my name and my looks as some kind of antonym to my profession?’ I fold my arms across my chest defensively, my words reasonable, my expression probably anything but.
We’re standing almost at the front door, out of the way of the main restaurant, but I wonder how long we can keep up our exchange in spoken terms.
‘Profession,’ he spits.So not long, apparently.‘I suppose even whores can lay claim to the nomenclature.’ His eyes roam over my body, full of distain. ‘At least, the ones that get paid, anyway.’
Big words and a superior attitude. Well, fuck this for a game of soldiers. This pathetic kind of boy’s club pisses me off no end.
‘Get over yourself, you complete fuck nut! I have no idea why you would do such a thing—why you would want to hurt me this way. And what gives you the right to use Sophia in such a despicable manner.’ Each word fuses the heat in my veins. Each reminder of the transgressions of this...person, because I refuse to call him a man, makes me feel sick.
‘The woman has sex for a living. Don’t expect me to feel anything for her.’
‘You’re fucked up.’ This is my official diagnosis. There is no remorse or feeling or guilt. There isn’t a flicker of anything decent in his expression. How could I have been so fooled?
‘She deserved it. What’s more, she probably liked it. Girls like her are so worthless, they’re familiar with being used. As for you?’ His gaze flicks over me again, the lazy distain turning to hate. ‘You brought this on yourself. You led me on—let me believe you were interested, then you fucked another man while I wandered around your kitchen serving food!’
I realise three things at this moment, as angry fricative-spittle hits my face.
1. He’s moved closer
2. He’s completely delusional
3. He’s possibly dangerous.
4. That was him outside my bedroom door, listening like a perv.
Okay, four things. I’m a little stressed; I can’t be held responsible for counting.
‘No one asked you to serve food,’ I answer calmly, reasonably. ‘I paid for waiter service, just as I paid for the food.’
‘And do you honestly think the paltry sum you paid covered even the raw costs of the produce?’
‘That’s on you, Tate. I didn’t flutter my eyelashes at you to get a better rate.’ It’s not my fault you’re a crappy business man.
‘I thought you’d be opening your fucking legs.’ Although quietly spoken, his words are rage filled as he reaches for my arm, his fingers pinching instantly.
Time to leave. There’s getting your point across to sane persons and there’s putting yourself at risk. These two things arenotthe same.
‘You insulted my manhood and my intelligence. You’re a cock-tease. Nothing but a filthy cock-tease’
‘Let go of my arm, Tate.’ I begin to feel a little sick. Not the ill kind, the anxious kind. Yes, there are people around, but they’re behind me. The floorspace is L shaped and the customers seated some distance away, probably out of Tate’s line of view. Can they see this happening? And if they can, will they just watch if he gets physical? I’d like to think people stand up for others, but I know this isn’t always true. ‘I want to leave.’
‘Oh, she wants to leave now,’ he snarls, towering over me. ‘Now that she’s heard a few truths. What’ll you do now, Chastity? Will you go back to your cunt of a boyfriend and suck his little dick?’
I might laugh if I wasn’t so stunned. Or suggest we call Flynn over and get a tape measure out. Instead, I struggle, trying to pull my arm free but his just tightens. Fear swells in my throat, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me call for help. It’s broad daylight—nothing can happen here, right? Even as I’m reassuring myself, I can see how my reaction fuels the fire in his gaze.
There are names for men like him. Men that get off on power over women.Rapists, my mind whispers. But no, not here.
I put my whole body weight into one shove, and yank on the door as he stumbles back. I can’t get my keys out of my purse quick enough before his shoes sound on the pavement behind. Cars whizz by; it’s the mad rush hour centred around school pick up time.
He won’t hurt me—not in broad daylight. Not with all the traffic rushing by. Pedestrians bustle past, their shopping bags almost brushing my back.
‘You’re a cunt,’ he growls, coming up behind me. ‘It’s women like you who give your gender a bad name.’
Ignore him. Get in the car, drive away.
Finally, my fingers grasp my key. I click the fob, put my fingers on the door handle and cry out as he grabs my hair.
Fear zips down my spine as he slides his other hand around my waist. We might look like lovers—my head pulled back and resting on his shoulder as he whispers in my ear, my whole being caught in his embrace.
