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I tug my arm away roughly, while knowing full well that women aren’t supposed to do that. We’re supposed to placate men, not bruise their egos, just in case… they’re one of the dangerous ones.
But in this case, I can’t help it. The urge to get the feel of him off me is too visceral.
“I’m done dancing, thanks,” I say firmly and go to turn only to feel his hand on my arm again.
I pull mine away once more, taking an inelegant step back only to collide with something hard behind me. I shudder as a hand reaches forwards from behind and winds itself around the drunken man’s wrist so tightly that I see the muscles tensing furiously.
I know who it is without needing to turn and watch as the sloppy man’s eyes climb a foot upwards to the man whose firm chest is pressing into my back.
“You heard what she said,” Greyson growls. “Now step the fuck back or I’ll throw you into the fucking wall.”
As he speaks, Grey’s hand grips the top of my arm, only this time, I feel neither the revulsion nor sense of intrusion I did when the stranger touched me.
If anything, a torrent of relief washes over me as Grey gently eases me to the side of him before taking a step in front of me.
The drunkard staggers a little. “What’s it to you?”
I pull on Grey’s arm, not for the first time. “He’s not worth it.”
The sweaty man grins at me before taking a step forward. “Looks like she wanted a good time.”
Under my palm and fingers, Grey’s muscle contracts into stone, and I tug on it again, utterly ineffectually seeing as this man is about two hundred pounds of muscle and feels like twice my size.
“Go on. Put your hand on me,” Grey snarls. “I dare you.”
But before a word can even come out, the creep pushes Grey hard in the chest, only for Grey to grab him by the front of his shirt, literally tipping the cockroach onto his back and dragging him by the neck through the dancefloor.
As he makes it to the door, Rami rushes up, opening it widely so that Grey can throw the pig out.
As the drunken creep rolls over, easing himself onto his knees and then his feet, the barman bounds up, coming to a stop in front of us on the wide sidewalk overlooking a small tree-encased parking lot and pushing the man back.
“I warned you, asshole!” he shouts, grabbing the man by the shoulder and walking him as best he can towards a small line of waiting cabs, followed by Greyson.
“You okay?” asks Rami as Fran links her arm into mine. “Sorry, I was in the washroom. Just caught the tail end of that.”
“Yeah, all good.”
Frannie rubs my arm. She knows I’m jumpier than I used to be, a fact that I hate. The woman’s a blinding ray of sunshine, but I was always the more spontaneous one, the more carefree, the sillier of the two.
I don’t want to lose that to fear or trauma.
I can’t lose it.
We watch as Grey and the barman practically shove the man into a cab with Grey pulling out his wallet and handing the driver some money through the open front window.
As the car drives off, relief ripples through me as I shake off the malaise I felt at that fleeting moment of powerlessness.
As Rami hands Fran and me our purses, I watch Grey stroll back, eyes on the floor, hands in his deep pockets as the two guys he was with follow us out.
“Sorry about that. I didn’t see the fucker slip back in,” says the barman breezily, opening the door to go inside. “Local. Pain in my fucking ass.”
“No worries,” I respond, catching the eyes of the mysterious Mr. Everitt currently igniting a hormonal firestorm inside me with his sullen protectiveness.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Never mind me,” Grey replies sternly. “Areyou?”
I nod. “All good. Thanks for, you know, not turning the dancefloor into a crime scene back there.”
