17. Elena
17
ELENA
L orne can’t resist Atlas’s bribe. He has a taste for the finer things in life, and this wine must be particularly fine because he downs the rest of the bottle in less than an hour, making him tipsy, handsy, and a lot more forgiving.
“Atlas ain’t so bad,” he slurs, setting a sloppy hand on my thigh. “He’s got good taste, at least. I like this dress, by the way.”
I refrain from telling Lorne that Atlas also picked out the dress.
It must be perfect, because Lorne hasn’t found a single thing to criticize in my appearance tonight. In fact, he scoots his chair closer and slings his arm around my shoulders.
I spent my last hour with Ivy recreating makeup looks we found on YouTube. She gave herself the “rainbow unicorn makeover” while I attempted the “subtle smokey eye.” The results were pretty damn good, and so what if I’m getting my fashion advice from a nine-year-old? Mina can only do so much over the phone.
Lorne obviously likes the results. His fingers brush against the top of my breast.
I take another sip from a glass that’s mostly still full.
I don’t like wine that much, even super fancy wine that’s older than me. Especially super fancy wine that’s older than me, it turns out. It’s a little sour.
Lorne keeps talking about mouth feel and layers and bouquet . He’s droning on and on.
I’ve always liked to listen more than I like to talk. At first, I loved Lorne’s charm and wit, how he can easily fill an hour with amusing anecdotes.
But Lorne seems to think he’s always interesting, and the truth is…sometimes he’s not.
The wine isn’t helping. It’s making his speech mushier and his stories less coherent.
I’m listening less and watching Atlas more the drunker Lorne gets.
Atlas roams the restaurant, barking orders at servers and cooks, his scowl progressively darker. I’m pretty sure he brought Lorne the wine to distract him, but now Lorne is tipsy and openly groping me, and Atlas looks pissed.
I can’t kiss Atlas again. What was I thinking? Lorne’s my fiancé. I’m marrying Lorne.
I try to block out the walking storm cloud and focus on the man sitting right next to me. The one touching me. The one staring down at my tits.
How can the man on the other side of the room feel closer than the one slipping his hand down the front of my dress?
“Lorne…” I squirm away from him, scooting my chair over a few inches. “People are looking.”
“Nobodysh looking,” Lorne slurs. He hasn’t actually checked. If he did, he’d see Atlas glowering at us, as well as the old lady sitting two tables away.
He scoots closer to me again, like we’re slowly chasing each other around the table while glued to our chairs.
Slinging his arm around my shoulders and breathing sour, boozy breath into my face, Lorne says, “Have you watched that porn I gave you?”
“Yeah. Some.”
Lorne gave me a brand-new laptop earlier in the week, which seemed like a really nice gesture until I realized he’d filled it with super graphic pornography he expects me to watch.
I started a couple of videos, but they kind of made me feel sick. Especially once I realized that all the girls in the videos were blond and curvy and Eastern European. I guess I should be glad that I’m obviously Lorne’s “type,” but it gave me a weird feeling…like if a different blond girl would have come to the café five minutes earlier, she’d be marrying Lorne instead.
Plus, the videos were intense. Is that how Lorne expects me to behave in bed after we’re married?
I don’t have the guts to ask him.
Lorne slips his hand down the front of my dress again, groping my left breast. His wet mouth breathes into my ear. “Have you been practicing?”
I tried touching myself, but the videos didn’t turn me on. I’m afraid to tell Lorne that I still haven’t had an orgasm.
“Yes,” I lie, shrinking under his arm, trying to pull away from his hand, but he catches my nipple between his thumb and index finger and pinches. I yelp, “Yes! I’ve been practicing!”
“Good girl.” Lorn nibbles at my ear.
My skin crawls. I don’t like my tits groped in public, and I don’t like my ears licked ever.
“Stop it, Lorne,” I mutter, but he only squeezes my breast harder, his other hand moving up my thigh.
“Why? Is he watching?”
Yes, Atlas is absolutely watching. I can feel his eyes burning on my skin even before I meet his furious gaze.
But telling Lorne that will only egg him on. He’s almost pulling my breast out of my top.
“Lorne, stop!” My voice is a little louder now as I try to pull away from him. “You’re embarrassing me.”
Lorne lets go of my breast, but only so he can grab the back of my neck instead. Flushed from the wine, even his eyes are bloodshot as he presses our foreheads together. “ I’m embarrassing you ?” he sneers. “You should count your lucky stars every time you’re seen in public with me.”
Tears spring into my eyes, from hurt and humiliation and the pain of his fingers digging into the tense muscle at the base of my neck.
“Stop, Lorne! I don’t?—”
Lorne is jerked out of his seat. One moment his hands are all over my body, grabbing, pinching, groping, his boozy wet mouth licking at my ear, and the next instant his feet dangle in the air as Atlas lifts him by the throat.
“ Atlas, stop! ”
I’m shrieking and beating at his arms, but I might as well pound the side of a mountain with my fists. Atlas’s face is a mask of rage while Lorne silently chokes.
It’s not until Lorne’s eyes start to roll back that Atlas snaps out of it. He flings Lorne back down so hard that the chair rocks back on its legs and almost tips over. It’s balanced by the limp body of Lorne himself, who slumps forward and vomits down the front of his shirt, dark as blood from all the wine.
“Get him cleaned up,” Atlas barks at the closest busser.
The entire restaurant is staring at us, every last server and shocked guest, including the little old lady two tables over. I can only imagine what she thinks of my dinner-table drama.
Tears of shock and humiliation flow down my cheeks.
Atlas tries to put his arm around my shoulders, but I twist away from him. “Get off of me!”
He glowers. “I was only trying to help.”
I look at my drunken, throttled, vomit-spattered fiancé, who’s sure to be furious at me tomorrow when he sobers up.
“You’re not helping! You’re making things worse!”
I turn and flee the restaurant.