“I’m not a puppy. I don’twander.”
His hand is stiff when it falls to my back and guides me through the door he’s opened for us. My skin breaks out in goosebumps while simultaneously burning. I clamp my lip between my teeth.
“Same rules apply,” he grumbles.
Without another word, I keep close to him as we step inside the bar. Instead of the quiet, pink paradise I’m used to when I’m here during the day, Pretty Little Pour has been completely transformed. While it’s still pink, the music is loud and fast, and it’s hot and muggy from all the bodies. The grinding drunks draw my attention instantly, reminding me that as much as I wish I were, I’m not here for a good time.
The steady, still-tense hand that remains on my bare back keeps me close as we move through the crowds. My outfit doesn’t stand out amongst the dance floor, but I can’t say the same for Roman. Not only does he look like he should be attending a business meeting instead of pushing through gyrating bodies, but he’s also much older than almost everyone around us, making him stand out all that much more.
Even I’ve begun to feel too old in places like this, and I’m only twenty-five. If I had to guess, I’d say that most of thewomen taking shot after shot at the glittery pink bar are freshly nineteen, if not only a couple of years older. The guys look in their early twenties, but fuck if I know anymore.
With how quickly they’re all drinking, surely they’re not older than me. I have a three-drink maximum before I’m waking with a throbbing head and spending the morning crouched in front of the toilet.
“She’s probably this way,” I shout, tapping Roman’s front to draw his attention.
He presses harder on my back in confirmation before I’m shifting slightly in front of him to lead the way. Feeling his heat behind me is more distracting than the constantly changing club music. I sidestep a pair of guys slamming back two Jägerbombs and huff when the taller one sticks his dirty fingers into his mouth and whistles.
My stomach rolls at how disgusting that is. I step on his foot when we pass, refusing to glance his way again. His grunt is swallowed by the sounds of the bar.
Roman’s hand slides to my waist before he’s giving me a push across his body. I whip my head back to look at him when his other hand finds the same exact placement and holds me at his opposite side, stabilizing my stumbling steps. He doesn’t say a word afterward. It’s like he didn’t just pull me away from the guys and to the side of his body closest to the wall.
Facing forward again, I let a small smile form.
Evie’s easy to spot once we pass the bar and reach the more secluded back side of the club. The same booths that I usually gravitate toward when I’m here during the day remain in place against the far wall, just a lot more crowded. There’s a small group of women standing around the third one, all of whom are digging through the purse that Evie’s gripping the strap of.
It’s the same chunky beige one that I saw on her shoulder at the photo studio.
I pull away from Roman and head her way. Something has the hair on the back of my neck standing up, and it isn’t the thoughtful, protective gesture from a moment ago. It’s those girls and the way they’re leering at Evie.
“Come on. You can’t honestly not even carry lipstick with you! This is a club, not a church. I thought the outfit was the worst of it, but apparently not.”
“Did you run out of tablecloths to wear?”
My chest tightens to the point it hurts to inhale as I listen to them belittle her. I act before I can consider the consequences.
The tallest girl only has an inch on me because of the tall wedges on her feet, so I grip her platinum-blonde hair in my fist and bring her down to my level. Her eyes are so wide they look like they might fall right out when she notices me and cries out, instantly reaching up to claw at the hand buried in her hair.
There’s a gasp from beside me that I think belongs to Evie, but I keep my attention on the girl whose fingers are still knuckle-deep in her purse. She’s wearing nothing more than a simple black skirt and a cropped tank top with a heart on it, but there’s an air of arrogance to her that pisses me off. It’s not well placed at all.
“Get your hands out of her purse and apologize,” I hiss.
Her friend is silent beside her, hesitating to intervene. It’s honestly even more embarrassing for her that she’s being such a bitch without even one person to have her back.
Still, she doesn’t release the purse. Her darkly lined eyes look me over. “Who the hell are you?”
“If I have to repeat myself, you’re going to need a wig.” I give her hair a tug.
“Ow! Shit—fine!” She yanks her hand from Evie’s purse and digs her nails into my wrist. “Now, let go of me!”
“Apologize.”
There’s a presence at my side now as a soft voice hits my ear. “You can let her go, Brielle. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s far from okay. You don’t get spoken to like that byanyone.” To emphasize my point, I haul the girl closer to Evie by my grip on her hair. “Apologize, or I swear to fuck I’m going to rip your hair out.”
Her whimper of pain doesn’t do a thing to make me release her. There’s an almost overwhelming need growing inside of me to protect Evie, even when I don’t know her well. She’s only four years younger than me, yet there’s a larger gap there when it comes to life experience. I don’t need to spend more time with her to know that.
There’s no reason to accept being belittled by someone. Especially by another woman. Not in a world where we’re supposed to be able to rely on one another.
