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‘No.’ I block his path and place a palm on his chest. ‘Please don’t.’
I’ve never seen Chase look so angry, but he doesn’t try to push through me. He seems to hesitate, though.
‘Stay with me. Please,’ I say.
I don’t want to cause a scene. I don’t want this to sabotage my night. Maybe I’m just overreacting. Maybe I just imagined it. But right now, I don’t need revenge; I need comfort.
Chase looks down at me. He’s deadly still, and his expression does not soften as he nods, looses a long breath, and draws me against him. He smells like sweat and beer and his cologne.
Safe.
Warm.
Home.
His arms tighten around me, and I let myself sink into him. He doesn’t pull away, not even when the crowd scatters.
I get the feeling he’d hold me all night if I wanted.
‘You’re shaking, Frankie,’ he whispers onto my head. ‘What happened has everything to do with them, okay? It’s not your fault, baby. It’s not your fault.’
‘What’s going on?’
I jerk away from Chase.
Archer looks darkly amused as he regards his best friend. ‘What isn’t her fault, mate?’
‘Some weirdo touched my leg,’ I say lightly. If I don’t make a big deal out of it, neither will he. ‘Chase was just comforting me.’
‘I told you,’ Archer says. ‘I told you this would happen.’
‘That’s enough, man,’ Chase cuts in, but Archer goes on as if his friend isn’t there.
‘But you didn’t listen, did you? You insisted on dressing like a fucking slut. Wear shit like that, and men will take advantage. You asked for this, love,’ he says, and he walks away.
At least he throws his cup into a bin as he leaves.
I decide the best thing is to give him space. I’ll let him cool down before I apologise.
Chase accompanies me. We amble from stall to stall, but when we reach our set-up an hour later, Archer’s tent is gone.
And so is Archer.
Chapter Eighteen
Lost and Found
According to Demi, her brother left in a hurry with no comment on where he was heading. He even took my rucksack with all my clothes and makeup; fortunately, I have my money and phone secured in my fanny pack.
That’s the most important thing, I guess, but I can’t snap out of the realisation that this is all my fault.
If I’d just listened to him and worn jeans instead of these stupid shorts, he wouldn’t have ignored me in the crowd, and I would have had no incentive to wander off. And then I wouldn’t have been touched by those men, and Archer would still be here. Noted, he shouldn’t have left at all, but everything that’s transpired tonight happened because of me. Because I wanted to prove that I can wear what I want, and everything would be fine and he’d be wrong, because it’s not my fault if men look at me; why should I have to consider what I wear just in case something happens to me? Why should I live in fear? Why should I compromise because of someone else’s actions?
But Icouldhave avoided it. Icouldhave prevented it from happening.
And I chose not to.
I deserve this.
