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I’ve done a Bad Thing, and I will spend all my life seeking reassurance that I’m not a bad person because of it. Every stroke of bad luck I’ve had since then seems like punishment for my one terrible sin.
My eyes wander the room until they settle on Joshua. He’s standing toward the back of the room, his gaze roving over the crowd. He hasn’t noticed me. Well, I’ll make him notice me. I’ve been told I have a pretty smile. I’ll smile brightly, and stand right in front of him, and get him to at least look at me.
Boldly, I walk right up to him. He stands angled away from me, holding a glass of seltzer water.
“Hi, I’m Tamara,” I say with forced cheer.
And then suddenly I realize he’s talking to someone else, a silver-haired man in a suit, and the man looks down his nose at me before stalking off with a sniff of disdain.
I’m the help. The help doesn’t talk. The help is furniture whose job is to glide on oiled wheels, anticipating needs, quickly serving those needs, then vanishing into the shadows. My face instantly flames red with humiliation; I’m a terrible blusher. “I’m so sorry,” I choke out, and start to back up.
Joshua focuses his gaze on me. The blue of his eyes seems to darken and turn stormy, and I could swear the black flecks are swirling like a cyclone. Something subtle changes, and his expression goes from cold and remote to laser-focused and terrifying. I’m caught in his sights, and I try to back up but my feet stay rooted to the carpet.
He leans in, and I could swear I feel the temperature drop several degrees. “You’re fired,” he says, his voice low and vicious.
I can’t possibly have heard that right.
My heart jackhammers in my chest, and my throat closes in panic.
“Excuse me? I’m sorry?”
But he’s already turned away from me and is gesturing at George, one of the security guards. “Escort her from the building.”
A wave of panic floods me.
I’m fired? For saying hi? He’s acting as if I really did grab his dick, like Heather joked about hours ago.
George barrels through the crowd and is on me in seconds. I’m hyperventilating with panic as his fingers close on my upper arm. He drags me through the crowd, gripping my upper arm painfully tight.
I have my waitress apron on; he doesn’t even give me time to take it off. The men in their tailored suits, the women in their updos and silky gowns, stare at me as if from a great height, whispering scornfully among themselves. The way George is acting, they must think I was caught lifting someone’s wallet.
Self-loathing and humiliation curl in my stomach. I don’t even try to hide the tears streaming down my face.
George rushes me down the stairs, and I struggle not to trip in my heels. “Slow down!” I cry out, but he ignores me, glaring straight ahead.
My arm’s going to have a huge bruise on it where his hand is crushing my flesh. Why is he being so rough? It’s completely unnecessary; it’s not like I’m fighting him. For some reason, I’m starting to get really scared. But he’s a security guard—his job is to protect people. He wouldn’t hurt me, would he?
When we get to the first floor, I shout, “Let go of me!” I struggle to wrench my arm from his grasp. “I’m leaving already. I can walk by myself!” My voice echoes down the hallway, magnifying my fear. We’re all alone down here.
His grip tightens. He doesn’t answer. He isn’t even looking at me. Instead of moving me toward the front lobby, he forces me toward the back hallway. The air conditioning vent overhead blasts us with freezing air, and goose pimples pop up on my skin.
“Stop!” I scream. “Help!” My voice bounces back at me mockingly. My heart pounds in my throat, and tears spring to my eyes. I claw at his arm with my free hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice. What does he have planned for me?
He flings open a door and drags me into the break room. When he shoves me up against a wall, I see the hideous lust gleaming in his eyes.
“Get away from me!” I scream at the top of my lungs, but I’m too far away from the party for anyone to hear me.
“Or what?” he sneers. “I don’t think Mr. Smith cares too much about what happens to you.”
He pins my hands above my head. Revulsion floods me as he presses his body against mine, and I feel his erection straining against his polyester pants. He’s wearing a sickly-sweet cologne, and his sour coffee breath curdles my stomach.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening… There’s a party full of people only two flights up from me, and I’m trapped in a room with a rapist…
With his free hand, he squeezes my breast so hard that I cry out in pain.I’m about to be raped. He’s going to force his dick inside me.
“Help!” I scream at the top of my lungs. The word cuts off abruptly when he slaps my face so hard my ears ring. Then he shoves his hand between my legs and squeezes my pussy, rubbing it and grinning obscenely. My skin crawls at his touch, and my dinner rises into my throat, almost making me vomit. He’s squeezing my wrists so hard I feel my bones creak.
Panic floods my body. There is no help coming. If I don’t fight my way out of this, he will rape me right here in the break room.
