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“What the fuck is this?” I say, flailing my arms out, ignoring the wince of pain that shoots up from my wrist.
As I should expect by now, Dante doesn’t miss it.
“You okay?” he asks, but his words are dark. Angry. Fury bubbles in them like a dark soda, rising to the top and bursting.
“Dante, what in the fuck is going on?!”
“Candy, go backstage and clean up. Marco will be at the door to walk you to your car. I’ll pay you out, cover your tips, yeah?” Dante says, ignoring me.
“No need, I’m good.”
“I’d feel better if you did, honey,” he says, and she stares at him, a small smile on her lips.
Is he fucking Candy, too? I can’t help but think, my stomach roiling with the idea.
I feel like my life is once again tipping upside down, and I have no idea what to do with that fact. It’s the hospital all over, everything I thought I knew and understood twisting.
Dante’s eyes meet mine.
“Get that out of your head. No, Lilah. No.”
The other thing I absolutely can’t stand about this man is how well he can fucking read me.
Maybe I should have called the cops that first time he was outside my apartment instead of romanticizing it.
Or, you know, the third or fourth or fifth time.
God, what a fucking moron I’ve been.
“Candy, go,” Dante says, his eyes moving back to my . . . friend. Yes, friend.
I like that, Candy being a friend.
Candy nods, walking with her back straight and her chin up, the way she taught me to do on my very first day, to the backstage area and then continuing to the dressing room, I’m sure.
“I gotta go deal with that fuckin' jamook,” Dante says, looking at me, and even though I haven’t known him long, I can read what his eyes are telling me.
Please, be good. Please, listen. I will explain.
“Marco. Lilah will follow you into my office. I’ll deal with her in a few. Then go wait for Candy, walk her to her car. Have a man follow her and make sure she’s home safe.”
Marco nods then steps toward me, but I move before he can even touch my arm to guide me to Dante’s office.
“The fuck I will!” I shout, stepping closer to the man who has been sleeping in my bed for two weeks. “The fuck. I. Will. Dante.”
“Delilah—"
“Absolutely not! What the fuck is going on here? You’ll deal with me? I’m not a fucking child that needs to be dealt with. I’m a woman, and I’m angry as fuck because—"
Dante grabs my wrist, pulling me close.
I don’t miss the way he holds me gently, despite the tug, aware of any soreness.
“Not. Here. Not here, Lilah. It is not safe here. You fuckin’ get into my goddamned office like a good fuckin' girl or I’ll have Marco carry you kicking and screaming. One way or another, you’re going in there, and you’re fucking waiting for me.”
His eyes are firm, that anger still bubbling, but it’s not for me. The anger isn’t for me.
Beneath the anger at the situation is pleading.
