My head feels fuller with every beat of the music, and it’s making it hard to see. I trace the walls of the interior, searching for anything that might get me through the next thirty minutes, my gut sinking, knowing it will probably be an hour. When I finally spot an open sofa, I move to it, my purse in my hands, my drink on the table behind me. I tuck myself into the corner cushions, then look over the other women sitting near me so I can emulate their behavior. All I want to do is fit in long enough to leave.
I settle on curling one leg under the other, then I pull my purse close, next to me and remove my phone, opening the text box. I think about texting Lindsey for a rescue, but then I remember Andrew—he’s telling her.
I can’t call Lindsey. She might not even come after he tells her everything.
My eyes fall to my lap and I slip my phone back into my purse. Graham finds me a few minutes later, and my stomach sinks when I see him hold a finger up to a friend and weave through the people to get closer to me. The heat of him next to me as he sits down close on the sofa repulses me.
“You want me to take you home?” he asks.
Yes! Yes, this is what I want. He’s not a bad guy, and he gets it. Oh thank god.
I nod and apologize. “I’m just not feeling very well,” I say.
He smiles, but briefly, knocking back the rest of his drink—the new one brought to him a few seconds ago from the waiter he badgered and bullied—then plunks his glass down on the small metal table in front of us.
“I’ll take you home,” he says.
I move my purse in front of me, looping the strap over my neck, relieved and ready to go. As I uncross my legs, I feel the eerie tickle of his finger sliding up my left thigh, stopping at the hem of my dress. My leg jerks in response. Graham chuckles, the sound escaping his throat raspy and dirty.
“Come on,” he nudges over his shoulder, standing and pulling out his wallet. I notice several hundred dollar bills unfold before he gets to two twenties. He steps over to his friend and hands them to him, then reaches for my hand, tugging it completely into his grip. My instincts are screaming at me to fight against it. But I desperately want to leave, and right now, this seems like my only way home.
We get out front and Graham practically drags me to the corner, stopping abruptly, looking both ways, then dragging me behind him across the street. My foot jerks and I feel one of my heels break off, so I hop a few steps, his hand still grasping mine.
“My shoe!” I scream.
He looks down at my feet behind him, sighing heavily as I take my shoes off. His hand reaches for my arm when I do, and as soon as I’m able to walk, he drags me to the other side of the street.
“Cabs are easier to get over here,” he grumbles.
We rush to the corner, a closed art gallery and several dark office lobbies lining the sidewalk. We pause by a metal trashcan, and I lean against it to lift my feet one at a time and look at their bottoms, inspecting for cuts. The blacktop has already stained them, and there’s a pebble lodged in the skin of one. I pull it out with my fingers, and as I’m leaning forward I feel the snaking sensation of Graham’s hand on my bare back. I arch myself away from him, straightening up quickly as I take a step away, leaving my broken shoes on the ground near the trashcan.
Graham holds both of his hands up innocently, his eyes still hazy and his mouth in a hard line. His right leg leans a little too far and he falters, but regains his balance quickly, his eyes on me the entire time. I look to the road, looking for a cab to call on my own, and in that second, he reaches for me again, this time his hand grasping around my side, his fingers sliding around my ribs, to my back, pulling up the material gathered around my lower back and causing my skirt to hike up several inches as he pulls me to him.
I shove my hands into his chest, forcing space between us, but I’m no match for his strength as I struggle against him. I feel his hand slide around my back completely, into the scooped curve of my dress, his fingers clawing at my ass. I bring my knee up, but he anticipates me and blocks my blow, turning enough to the side.
“Isn’t this how your man Andrew likes it?” he huffs. His hold is rough, bruising my body everywhere he grips it, and I start to cry.
“Let go! Graham, let go of me!” I scream, my words muffled against his mouth as he forces a kiss on me, his beard scratching at my face and his breath hot. I push so hard that the strap on my purse breaks, and I feel my things fall to the sidewalk below us. I also feel Graham’s other hand reach around me to force me even tighter into him. He tastes of old whiskey and stale smoke.
He growls as I shove against him hard, breaking his hold enough to get a foot of space from him, enough room to scream.