And no one in a trench coat.
I inched my way through the crowd, somehow finding an empty bar stool. I ordered two rounds of well vodka with an orange juice chaser. While I waited, I glanced at my phone. I knew I should call Mara. Text her. Tell her that I wasn’t going to make it. But the thought of having to make up an excuse and lie to her, when I was trying hard to be honest, made the whole thing intimidating.Shewas intimidating. Going to college because shewantedto. Able to go to a fetish club like it wasnothing. Not like me.
So I didn’t text her. She and Nate would be fine. I was probably an excuse for them to go there together anyway.
The bartender slid the shots and chaser in front of me. I threw one back, then eyeballed the room, both to size it up and to see where Grant was. He was in the corner with his sunglasses on, the metallic lenses and showing nothing. Muscle Boy needed to lighten up. He needed a shot more than me.
I lifted the second shot and nodded at him. He didn’t move. Fine, then; more for me. I swallowed it down, the burn in my throat making me squint.
I ordered another shot and a screwdriver this time, chasing the pure shot with the cocktail. I wasn’t the type to wallow in my own misery, but Iwasthe kind of person to drown out the misery with partying. Once the woman next to me was served her drink, I immediately clinked glasses with her.
“Life is short and then you die,” I said. “So drink some more and party through the lies.”
She laughed, then lifted her drink. “Party ‘til we drop, girl,” she said.
After I finished the third shot, I stuck to the screwdriver. The room was hazy from the constant indoor smoking, and my vision was beginning to blur. But I made my rounds, talking to anyone who would listen, falling back into my old habits. Yes, I was indeed the heiress to a massive fortune in a currency you’ve never heard of. No, I’d only been to prison once, not the three times you’d heard about.
Right about the time I was about to lie to a man that, Yes, I was taken, happily engaged to a Wall Street millionaire, I looked across the room and locked eyes with Grant. Sunglasses off. Eyes the color of brandy. Watching me. Waiting. He hadn’t spoken to a single person.
“Single,” I said, my lips open as I said it, staring back at Grant. The man I was talking to slapped me on the back. I turned back to the group, and laughed, because they were laughing too. Something funny had been said, but I didn’t know what, thanks to the buzzkill with a capital G.
By the end of the screwdriver, I had made friends with a group getting ready to do karaoke, the only song worthy of a group that large, Bohemian Rhapsody.
Before we went on, I went to the bar to order a final shot of liquid courage for the group, nudging my way between two stools.
“There’s a line, cunt,” a man said, knocking me in the rib cage with his elbows. It hurt like hell. Fuck no. I wasn’t going to put up with that. It was one thing to hurt me because I wanted it; another for a man to assume he could treat me like trash.
I wrangled his arm, digging my fingernails into his jacket. “Ladies first,” I snapped.
He turned to me, stepping off the stool and looking down into me. “I don’t see any ladies,” he said. He stepped closer and I stepped back. “Now, if I were you, I’d take myself elsewhere, or you’ll be asking me to get nasty.”
I blinked up at him, trying to regain composure. He sneered down, noticing my chained neckline, his eyes glued to my breasts, then ran his fingers over the metal. Getting dangerously close to my breasts. The fucking pig.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I said, swatting him away.
“Or what?” he asked. He leaned in. “What are you going to do if I don’t?” Hastily, I peered around. If there was a time for Grant to show up, it would be now. The man breathed down on me, surrounding me in the odor of sauerkraut and cigar ash. I gagged, exaggerating my choking.
“Breath mint. Ever heard of one?” I asked.
“Listen, little bitch,” the man said. He grabbed my arm and I gasped. “I don’t care who you are or what you’re doing. You’re just a drunk bitch. And you know what men like me do with drunk bitches?”
This was the kind of man I usually went after. If I sweet-talked him at first, got on his good side, I knew he would take me back to his place, and he wouldn’t be afraid to slap me. To make me hurt. To make me scream at the climax of pleasure. But I never let their inner violence get this far. And when I did, I ran.
All I could see right then was this man swallowing me whole. A figure lingered in my peripheral vision, coming closer. But I had to keep my eye on the target. On the man gripping my arm.
Hand in my purse. Where were those keys? I needed them for reassurance. To hold them. I wouldn’t need to stab him like Grant had taught me. It wouldn’t get that far.
A few people were watching us now. But I couldn’t move. I found the keys and squeezed the metal in my palm. His bloodshot eyes. His teeth dripping with fury. His sweaty palm wandered from my neckline to my breast. Groping me in public. Not caring about the consequences.
“Get your hands off of me,” I hissed.
“Or what?” He held my throat, lightly at first, but adrenaline surged through my body at the contact in such a vulnerable spot. “Tell me. Whores like to be choked. Tell me you’re not a whore. I’ll let go when I believe it.”
I wanted so badly to spit in his face. To make him hurt me. But I did something else.
“You rapist pig,” I muttered.
And he squeezed.
