Page 2 of Torin

Then I look back at the girl in the mirror with her flower crown and dead eyes.

“Yeah,” I say. “Definitely.”

A timer alarm goes off. Tasha yanks her phone out of her cleavage and checks it. “Okay. Show time.” She shoves my half-finished champagne at me. “Down it.”

I do as she tells me, then she marches me out of the bedroom. The music hits me the moment we step into the hallway, bass pounding up through the floorboards. Men shout over one another downstairs. A glass smashes, followed by a roar of approval. Smoke and gasoline drift up from the clubhouse, mixed tonight with booze, sweat and too much cologne.

Tasha starts down the stairs, keeping hold of my wrist as if she thinks I might bolt. I gather up my dress and follow. The boots feel solid under my feet—that’s one thing at least.

Downstairs, the clubhouse is a sea of leather cuts and tattoos. Long tables are crowded with bottles and half-finished plates of food. Strings of white lights crisscross the ceiling beams, intended to make the place look festive instead of deeply ominous.

Conversations falter, heads turn. And suddenly I understand.

This is why Cade wanted the dress thin. Why he wanted nothing underneath it.

Not just for him. For this.

For every man in the room to know exactly how naked I am.

My face gets hot.

Tasha, naturally, is delighted.

“She cleans up good, right?” she announces to nobody in particular.

A few men laugh. Someone whistles.

I spot my father near the bar. His sheriff’s badge is clipped to his belt, cowboy boots polished to a high shine. He’s wearing the easy smile that’s appeared on campaign posters, local news segments and a thousand photographs of him shaking hands with people who think they know him.

For one stupid second, I’m relieved to see him. It’s pure reflex. Some leftover piece of being a kid and believing your father was the safest person in the world.

Then his eyes run over the dress, my hair, my face. Checking. And the feeling disappears.

“There she is.” He makes it sound affectionate, like I’m late to a family dinner instead of being delivered into a transaction.

He comes over and takes my arm. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Thanks.”

I can smell whiskey on his breath.

His fingers tighten around my upper arm. “You gonna behave yourself tonight?” he asks quietly.

Anybody watching us would think he’d pulled his daughter close for a tender word on her wedding day.

I look down at the sheriff’s badge on his belt, then back at his smiling face.

“I’ll do my best.”

His fingers dig harder.

“See that you do.”

He releases me as footsteps sound behind us.

The room goes quiet.

I don’t need to look to know who just walked in.