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Bastards.
On my next trip past them, juggling a heavy tray of empty glasses, I keep my gaze straight ahead.
I will not look at them. I will not give them the satisfaction.
I will not associate or be friendly with anyone assessing my ‘worth.’
And just when I let my tiny amount of self-righteousness offer me some comfort, two fingers pinch my ass so hard the glasses tumble off my tray, smashing into everyone and everything surrounding me.
* * *
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
Charleigh
There is an uproar with people jumping to their feet, wiping off the alcohol I spilled on their suit jackets, but I am first and foremost concerned with getting back up. I’m sprawled on the soft carpet, fortunately, but when I push myself up, I scream from the pain in my left hand.
I recoil at what I see—a shard of glass sticking out of my palm, with blood pooling slowly around it, like something from a horror movie—which pretty much reflects the status of my life at the moment. Without thinking, I yank the piece of glass out. Big mistake. Not only have I now exponentially increased my pain but have also left an open hole in my hand, where the glass was temporarily plugging it.
My palm fills with a stream of pulsing blood.
Dominika is there in a second, pulling me up by my good arm and keeping her distance from the blood. “C’mon,” she barks. “Get out of here with that mess. Look what you’re doing, all over the carpet.”
Before my mouth can even drop open, and before the urge to smack her ugly face makes me do something to endanger my life more than it already is, the bartender is there with a couple towels. Niko grabs them from him. He wraps one around my hand, so tight it almost hurts, and lifts my arm above my head.
“Sit here,” he demands.
Dominika scowls at having been overruled.
I sit with my hand up in the air, and before I can even blink, Niko has pulled some man I’ve never seen out of his seat and is shaking him by the lapels.
“You fuck,” he growls. “Get out of here. And never come back.”
The man, balding and pockmarked, holds his hands up in surrender. “Easy there, guy,” he pleads, shocked that his behavior’s considered out of line. “I was just having a little fun with the help.”
He looks back at his buddies, who have also gotten to their feet. But they aren’t paying any attention to him.
They are focused on the Alekseev brothers, waiting to see if they are in line for the same treatment as their imprudent friend.
With no backup, the man takes a few steps, glancing toward the lounge exit. He’s clearly gotten the message he’s never coming back, but he also seems worried about making it out alive.
His concerns are not unfounded. In the next moment, the fury in Niko’s eyes turns into a closed fist in the center of the man’s face.
He stumbles back, blood flowing out of his nostrils like a garden hose, and into his friends who no longer want anything to do with him. One of them grabs him from under the arms, and drags him out, the door slamming behind them.
His other friends respond with a chorus ofI’m sorry, That guy’s an asshole, Let us pay for this mess,andAre you okay, Miss?
Niko shakes out the hand he hit the man with, opening and closing his fingers, and turns back to me. “Let me see your hand, Charleigh. You might need stitches.”
Not so fast.
He might have come to my defense, but I’m not giving him the pleasure of ensuring his ‘investment’ remains flawless. I push to my feet with my good hand, ignoring the wooziness that’s making the room spin, and run past all of them, including Dominika. I head to my room, making sure to drip blood all the way down the hallway. I hope it stains. I want them to remember me when I’m gone.
* * *
CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT
Charleigh
