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I refuse to get out of his way so he can go to that girl and do things with her. Ask her to be his distraction for the night, touch her lip with his thumb and smirk at her.
“Yes.” I raise my chin.
“I’m all ears,” he clips, his bright eyes shooting fire.
“I’m not a thief,” I tell him with a determined voice. “You called me a thief, didn’t you? You asked if it was my thing, stealing? It’s not. I don’t steal things. For your information, I worked. I had a job at a restaurant. Ever heard of St. Mary’s Date Diner? All the high school kids go there. You went there, remember? I worked there as a waitress. I work. For money. I only stole that money from your mom because I needed the cash. I’d just bought myself a new pair of soccer cleats and so I didn’t have any savings left and I needed to get out of here as soon as possible, understand? And I was going to give it back to her. The entire one hundred and sixty-seven dollars. Once I was settled somewhere and had a job again, okay? And you’d know that if you’d bothered to ask me rather than throwing out accusations.”
Okay, so I had a lot of anger inside of me tonight. More than I was anticipating.
But whatever.
It’s not as if I’m lying. I did work at that restaurant. But I only started working there after he left for California with my sister. That I chose that restaurant in particular because he frequented it with his high school friends and my sister is a tidbit of information I’m not willing to give him.
Anyway.
There’s an unfathomable look on his face as he stares down at me. A glint in his eyes that I don’t understand.
But it makes me think that he wants to take a deeper look at me. Another look.
A second look.
I don’t know. The point is that I should stop. I’ve said my piece. I’ve even gotten my apology now. Not that he was nice about it but still.
But the thing is, I don’t wanna stop. I don’t wanna walk away, because there’s something else.
Something crazy and dramatic and drastic that I wanna do before I leave and go cry in a corner of this dark bar. Because as soon as I leave, he’ll go find a girl and distract himself.
I shouldn’t do it. I shouldn’t.
I have to though.
I absolutely have to.
Because what I’m about to do will make my statement, ‘I’m not a thief,’ completely true. It will make me a borrower, at the worst.
So when it looks like he’s about to break his intense scrutiny and open his mouth to say something – probably derogatory – I take half a step back and blurt out, “And there’s something else too.”
And then, I do it.
I grab the hem of my t-shirt – I’m not wearing a sweater tonight; I only have a t-shirt on, his, among other things – and tug it up.
I clench my eyes shut and pull it all the way up and take it off my body.
Yup, I take my t-shirt, or his t-shirt, off in a crowded bar. A bar full of drunken people, people who might have witnessed my shameful, slutty act.
At least I’m not naked underneath.
No, I’m wearing another t-shirt. My own.
Because I’d come prepared.
Like a fool, I not only thought that I’d run into him again, I even readied myself for it. All the while I was putting on my own top underneath, I told myself that I wouldn’t do it. There is no chance in hell that I’d ever take my clothes off in a crowded bar.
I guess I underestimated myself.
And now his t-shirt is wadded up in my hand and I throw it at his chest.
“Here’s your stupid t-shirt back,” I tell him, ready to make my grand exit now.
Ready to go somewhere in a corner, curl into a ball and cry while he finds someone to curb his pain.
But all my thoughts about leaving and crying in a corner vanish when all of a sudden, he bends down toward me and snatches my wrist. He not only snatches it, he puts pressure on it and pulls me toward himself.
That’s when I get a good look at his face.
I’ve been so agitated and embarrassed at what I did that I forgot to pay attention to him, but I’m paying attention now.
I’m paying attention to his rippling chest, going up and down with his harsh breaths. I’m paying attention to his chain that seems to be jerking up and down as well.
And his eyes.
God, his eyes are so narrowed with anger, they’re almost slit-like.
“You’re coming with me,” he growls.
I swallow. “C-coming where?”
“Where you belong.”
“What?”
He tightens his hold on my wrist, almost crushing my bones, and my eyes sting. “I told you not to let me catch you where you don’t belong, remember? So I’m taking you back. To St. Mary’s.”
