10. Coraline
10
CORALINE
I’m so mad, I feel like I’m going to explode. I don’t even know what I’m that angry about.
Logically, I understand that I’m in a very public place in a neighboring town. It’s a coincidence, nothing more.
But emotionally, it feels like the universe is just fucking with me. Not only have I not gone on a single date since I ended things with Grant, but now I keep running into the man who broke my heart years ago. Which in the dating world is practically an eternity.
And I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I forget all the reasons not to climb Jagger like a tree every time he gives me those bedroom eyes of his or the fact that I’m letting his presence get to me.
I hate that after all this time he still has such an easy way of affecting me. Embarrassment wraps around my neck like one of Nana Jo’s old mink stoles, squeezing tighter and tighter with every second that I remember how I leaned into him like some kind of heartsick fool.
Well, fuck that and fuck him. I’m no one’s fool. And I’ll be damned if I let a couple of dirty innuendos from Jagger ruin my night.
In fact, I’ve just decided that I’m going to climb someone else like a tree tonight, just to prove to myself that I can. Maybe that will get the Reaper out of my head. For good.
And if he happens to see me dancing with other guys tonight, then all the better.
Because underneath all that charm and good-natured humor is the same man who stepped out after I opened up about one small, little fantasy. Yeah, we were in a casual situationship, but we had the potential to be so much more. At least, I thought so.
It’s a sobering thought. My chest gets tight with regret.
“You okay? I thought you were getting drinks,” Sophie yells when I reach the three of them in the crowd.
“The line was too long.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder, but I don’t turn around. I don’t trust myself, not when I can feel his gaze on my ass still. I shake my head in realization. I knew these pants were gonna give me grief tonight.
But it’s fine. I can handle Jagger just fine.
“Well it’s a good thing I went to the other bar then,” Addie crows as she pushes her way between Sophie and I. Eight plastic shot glasses—four in each hand—are held up like some kind of trophy. “Bottoms up, gals! They’re about to start!”
I know it’s a bad idea. I know it. Shots and I have never vibed, but I’m feeling reckless tonight. Blanche passes them out, and the four of us clink the little plastic cups together before shooting them.
“Goddamn. A little warning next time, Addie,” I drawl, wincing through the burn of tequila.
“Remind me again why we couldn’t just do drinks?” Sophie deadpans with a shake of her head.
“Because drinks here are fucking ridiculously expensive, but these shots are a loophole in their pricing structure!” Addie shouts the end of her explanation, laughter thick in her voice. “Round two, bitches. Let’s gooo!”
Regret is worming its way between my ribcage already, but it’s not large enough for me to take notice yet. I toss back the other shot and stack my mini cups on top of Blanche’s.
“Alright, I’m ready to dance. Who’s with me?”
The golden girls whoop and holler, Addie jumping up and down a few times. The lights dim, the filler music cuts off, and the stage lights flare to life.
There’s a heartbeat of silence, a moment when the audience takes a collective breath. One where we’re all shoring ourselves up for the experience that’s about to hit us. It’s like the calm before a storm, and it’s one of my favorite parts about a concert. It’s the swelled anticipation, bloated with so many contributions.
And then the first note reverberates throughout the ballroom, the lights plunge into darkness, and strobe lights flicker around the room.
And the golden girls and I start to dance.
Sultry beats pulsate along my skin, sweat dampening the hair on the back of my neck. I gave up thirty minutes ago and tossed it into a messy ponytail on the top of my head. It’s so hot in here, too many bodies are pressed together. Dancing, jumping around, swaying and screaming to the lyrics.
It’s a masterpiece in humanity.
Watered-down beer has me just buzzed enough to consent when some guy asks to dance with me about halfway through the show. I look around and realize that it was some kind of coordinated effort, with three different guys dancing with my three friends. Even though I’m perfectly happy to keep grooving solo, I nod my agreement.
He takes my hand and pulls me closer, our bodies moving in sync with the music. He’s attractive in the conventional way: light brown hair cropped close around the sides and flicked up a little in front. He’s only a few inches taller than me, though. And his pants are a little too tight. There’s no way he’s not roasting in them, but he seems happy enough.
He leans in and shouts, “Need a drink?”
It’s the moment of truth now. If I have one more, then I’m not driving home tonight. Which means, the golden girls will have to drive a couple hours to take me home and back. Or . . . I go home with him. And despite my earlier conviction to hook up with someone, it’s not going to be this guy.
I nod my head, a strand of hair flying and sticking to my lip gloss. “Sure, water.”
“A water?” he mocks. “I thought we were having a good time.”
A frown tugs down the corners of my mouth. “I’m driving tonight.”
He grabs my hand, trying to link our fingers together. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
I pull my hand from his and flash him a tight smile. “That’s alright. I have work in the morning. In fact, I should probably get going.” It’s not a lie exactly. But the truth is alarm bells are starting to go off in my head, and I’m already looking for a way to exit.
He steps back, hands in the air in the universal surrender gesture. “Hey, no need to leave. I’ll grab you a water, no problem.”
He walks backward a few steps, keeping that strange grin on his face. I don’t breathe easy until he turns around and the crowd swallows him up. I shift my focus back to the stage and try to get into the song, but I’m on edge. One song bleeds into two, and my shoulders start to lose their tightness.
“Here you go,” a deep voice says from behind me.
I jump, half-turning to see the same guy holding an opaque white plastic cup of water. making me jump.
“Oh.” I grab the cup from him and shoot him a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”
With a smooth movement, he shoulders into the space beside me, leaning over to say something to the girl next to me. He raises his own plastic cup in a salute, and I mirror his movement. “Bottoms up!”
“Right,” I say with nervous laughter. I wiggle my cup a little bit in his direction.
He starts to dance next to me, bobbing his head and shuffling closer to me. For every step I take to the right, he follows. The crowd ebbs and flows like high tide on the beach, moving as one.
His gaze ping-pongs between my eyes and the water cup and back again. “I thought you were thirsty?” he shouts, gesturing toward my still-full cup.
I shift myself away from him, my eyes darting around, looking for the golden girls. I can feel the patented expression on my face already, the look that every woman recognizes as SOS . My heart stutters when I realize that I can’t see any of them. I wasn’t paying attention, and now I’m surrounded by a sea of unfamiliar faces.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath. I’m also cursing my height. Another thing all the Carter women share: our below average height. I push onto my tiptoes and spin in a circle, trying to find my friends. But it’s pointless—I can’t see them.
He steps into me, planting his hands on my hips. “You good, sweetheart?”
His grip on my hips tightens, holding me to him. Alarm tingles my fingertips, and I grip his biceps in a futile effort to stop him from getting closer.
“I’m not your sweetheart,” I snap, pushing against him.
“C’mon, honey. You’re dehydrated. Drink your water and let’s have a good night together.” His words slur a little bit, and his hands start roaming over my ass.
“Get off of me,” I yell, panic making my voice thready and high.
The relentless beat of the drum consumes me, pulsating against my skin with increasing intensity. What a fucking time for a drum solo.
It feels like he suddenly turned into an octopus and sprouted another six hands. And all of them are grasping at me, squeezing and groping.
My breath is a wild animal, thrashing and clawing its way out of my chest. I do my best to tame it with slow, deliberate exhales.
I know what to do.
I can do this. I can take care of myself.
My muscles tense almost in rebellion as I pull my hands back. But it's all part of the trap. Drop his defenses so he gives me an opening. I’ve practiced this move so many times in my self-defense classes at Lockwood Park that I could do it in my sleep.
We’ll see how handsy he is when I knee his fucking balls into his throat.
My grip loosens, and the cup tumbles from my fingers. Ice cubes clatter to the floor, and the cold water splashes against my ankles. My right foot slides backward, I need to get that momentum to jam my knee upward.
But before I can, the guy stumbles backward, his face contorted with rage and flushing an unnatural shade of red.
“Look what you did, you fucking?—”
“Is there a problem here?” The familiar smooth voice hits my ear a second before his chest hits my back. Ocean breeze and warm summer nights.
Jagger .