‘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.
‘Fucking slut.’ He elongates the insult as though it wasn’t already frightening enough. I’m no shrinking violet. I stand up for what I believe in. Stand up for those I love. I never once imagined that, should a man put his hands on me, I would react like this.
Tears prickle from the force of his hand, but my fear is debilitating and like a punch to my chest. I have no breath for breathing. I want to run but don’t have the freedom or the wherewithal to do so.
And then, I’m suddenly free. Slumped against the car, my heart beating as though I’ve just taken part in a marathon.And I don’t run. Not by choice, at any rate.
‘Chas!’ Paisley’s voice is like a balm as she throws her arms around me, pulling me back from the car. ‘What was that about? Did he hurt you?’
As I turn, her eyes flick over me as though to discern my state of wellbeing. But you can’t always tell what’s broken just by viewing the surface. All the same, I shake my head. He didn’t hurt me. At least, not physically.And at least, not this time.
It’s about then I notice the motorbike and the man. Two men, really. Keir stands off to the side, almost refereeing the fierce looks being exchanged between Flynn and Tate. Looks that speak of violence and hate.
I open my mouth, to what purpose, I’m not sure, but I’m pleased I don’t take that moment to look away, not as Tate pushes Flynn. Not as Flynn retaliates by bringing his fist to Tate’s stomach, hard and fast, making his body bow. I wished I could hear what Flynn says as he places his hand on Tate’s shoulder, lowering to whisper something in his ear.
And then it’s over.
And he’s walking over to me.
And he looks so pissed.
And I want to cry but I can’t let myself do it.
His hands on my upper arms, his jaw flexes under the stubble covering his skin, and his eyes are just so ... unyielding and grim.
‘You look like shit,’ my mouth seems to say, though I’m almost certain my brain meant to ask him what he’s doing here.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and even in this state I can see that this is a delaying tactic... for a smile. A smile that is a precursor to laughter.
‘I wished I could say the same.’
‘You wished I looked like shit?’ I answer, bemused, though I’m sure I must look like someone who’s just had the piss frightened out of them.Try not to look down. If you had peed yourself, I’m sure you’d know by now. You’d be feeling a little cold down there, surely.
He inhales, and when he exhales, the merriment seems to drain out of him. ‘Yeah, I wished you looked like shit. It’d be easier to walk away.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I sound like a cartoon mouse—a blubbering, eye-watering, snot bubbling mouse. ‘I know it’s not enough, but I really am so, so very sorry.’
‘I know.’ He nods, his hands tightening. ‘Me, too.’
And then he turns away.
