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“Easy, sweetheart. Slow slips.” His face is that of concern. Genuine caring? He gently pushes a stray hair behind my ear, dragging his fingers down my heated cheek. The contrast in temperatures is soothing, and I lean into his cooler palm.
“Shtop,” I mutter.
“Stop what?”
“Bein’ perfect.”
His full-on smile makes me groan. My head feels like a bowling ball. The alcohol and the aftereffects of the pill are causing me to lose focus. My gaze jumps around in random directions. I just want to lie down and snuggle into a warm blanket. It is so cold all of a sudden in here.
“Hey. Look at me,” he prompts, using his hand to guide my face back into view.
I look at Graham and smile.
“Let’s dance,” I suggest, sliding down from my bar stool ungracefully.
“Okay, let’s dance,” Graham agrees.
It is so crowded that we basically just stand beside the bar, and I press the front of my body up against his. It feels so good. His arms wrap around my midsection and rub the exposed flesh of my back. I turn around so I can reach my drink and take a sip. Graham moves closer, and we sway to the Matt Nathanson song being sung by some dude on the stage. I can feel his erection on my back, and I rub my ass against him, earning a growl.
His lips are at my ear, and the warm breath tickles my neck as he murmurs, “Keep it up, woman, and I’ll drag you into the restroom like a caveman and fuck you up against the wall.”
Holy shit. Why is his dirty talk so hot?
“Hmm…”
“Is that what you want? That is how you want our first time to be?”
I reach for my drink and down it in a gulp, slamming the glass onto the bar a bit too hard. I lose my balance and fall forward, but Graham catches me.
“Shot of tequila!” I yell loudly.
“You’ve had enough to drink. I’m going to get you some water,” Graham chides.
“I fine.” My voice is hurting my ears.
“Fine? You aren’t fucking fine,” he huffs, and I giggle.
My mind finally clears, and I have an epiphany as I stare into the steel-blue eyes of beautiful perfection. “You so hot. It too late to cast my vote for wall sex?”
As soon as the words escape my betraying lips, I groan at my stupid-girliness. My hand flings up to my mouth, bumping the new shot glass full of tequila that magically appears in front of me. A few drops leak onto the polished wood. Shit. I need air. I am going to hyperventilate. I cannot look at him.
I throw the liquid down my throat like I am dying of thirst before Graham can stop me. I push off from the bar’s edge and use my palms to plow through the maze of people, searching for an exit. Graham’s baritone voice is in my ear, urging me to stop. I cannot tell if my imagination is playing tricks or if he is really there. I vow not to drink anymore for a long time. I have already had too much, and my rationality and mouth-to-brain filter are deteriorating at exponential speeds.
“Angela. Stop running,” he snaps. His once encouraging voice turns angry, desperate. “You are going to get hurt,” he warns.
I just want to get away from the source of my weakness. Graham does something to me. I can’t put it into words. It is just a feeling, and it freaks me the hell out. I see Russell with a few clingy girls and bolt the opposite way. I have no time for his drama. I twist between a group of guys and feel my body shove forward with a jolt. I crash into the back of a tall man, earning me a glare and an expletive. I nearly hit the floor from the sudden force. I feel the pressure of my halter shirt being pulled as I try to regain my posture and stance. The sound of ripping alarms me to the point of looking back to the origin of the sound. A blonde girl reaches for me from her knees, trying to stand. She tugs at my shirt for leverage. I anchor myself and gasp at the hole being created, sequins falling like black snow to the floor. The smell of beer and stale cigarettes burns my nose. I reach down and yank the petite girl up from the floor.
The comments made by the male population as I move through the crowd cause my eyes to roll. The predictable hey baby, nice ass, and wanna have some fun come-ons make me queasy. I push my way forward to find that two guys refuse to move for me. They create a blockade with wide shitty grins and the intent to cause me harm reflected in their eyes. I try to hide my quiver, as to not show weakness. This place could really use a bouncer or two.
“Hey, sexy,” the shorter one sneers.
The taller one puffs out his chest. “Wanna dance?”
“Excuse me,” I try. “Move!” Not even the universal middle finger gets them to budge. Their evil snickers and grins make me want to vomit on their shoes. I toss around the idea of tickling my throat just to have a little revenge. Taking the option of fresh air motivates me to change directions and try again to break through another male barrier. This time, I feel a squeeze on my skirt-covered ass, making me stop.
I see red.
Before I can even think, my right hand is in action, whirling past my head and connecting my open palm with the man who violated me. The smacking sound that it produces causes a searing pain to shoot through my hand. The feeling of empowerment outweighs everything—sending a charge running through my nervous system.
