Chapter 7 #2
I plaster on a fake smile and approach, determined to get this over with. “What can I get you?”
Drake’s eyes roam my neck, my breasts, to my hips and legs, and back up.
I swallow hard. He leans forward, vodka fumes emanating across the short gap separating us.
“Genevieve, you look radiant this evening.” I watch in slow motion as his arm snakes out and coils around my waist, bringing me to his side.
My heart sputters in my throat. I smile awkwardly, which is strange, given I’m convulsing inside. I dance on tiptoes in a ridiculous attempt to inch away. I don’t see, but sense—which is even creepier—his other hand drift behind my knee and up my thigh in a menacing manner.
I gasp right before his fingers slide beneath my short shorts, the material cutting into my thigh.
His arm is so tight around my waist I can hardly breathe, and the requisite nylons aren’t a barrier from Drake’s fingers sliding over my rear and around to my crotch.
I’m not wearing panties—none of the waitresses do, because they’d show beneath our uniforms, another reason for the mandatory pantyhose.
I press my tray over the front of my shorts to block Drake’s questing fingers, but the tray is bulky and it doesn’t prevent his hand from moving deeper.
He rubs the crease of my leg and brushes over the slit of my body.
I bend forward, jerking that part of me out of the way, but he has a lock on my middle and I don’t move far.
My chest seizes. I clench my thighs together.
All the self-doubt from this day, Cali’s justified anger—it crashes into me, weighing me down.
Whatever strength I gathered from telling Lewis what I thought this afternoon on the paddleboard vanishes.
I clam up, verbally, physically, unable to defend myself.
Drake fingers me roughly, pressing, poking—trying to enter me.
A light cry erupts from my throat. I wiggle frantically in a series of spastic tugs and manage to dislodge his hand, but it immediately returns to cup my rear.
Somewhere in my subconscious, I register the click of the door opening behind me.
Another man? I’m already outnumbered.
The men chuckle, the clink of glasses piercing my ears. Chatter about holes-in-one and Drake—a dirty joke about me, I think—are murmured in low, delighted tones.
Drake’s arm tightens, angling my body for better access. “So pretty and soft, Genevieve.” He reaches around and flattens his palm to my belly, sliding lower.
My vision blurs… I can’t breathe.
A throat clears. Masculine, forceful. Not one of the men around the table. The sound came from behind—the person who entered last.
The murmur of excited voices dims, and heads turn. Drake stills, but the arm bracketing my waist doesn’t budge.
My arms shake from shock and the fatigue of prying his fingers off me. I angle my neck—the only part of my body I can move—to the person that caught the room’s attention.
Lewis’s eyes snare mine, flickering to Drake’s arm tight around my waist. A muscle in his jaw flexes and he glares at Drake. “What’s going on?”
“You’re early,” Drake replies pleasantly, releasing me. A whoosh of air escapes my chest, loosening but not easing the strain that built.
I jerk to the side and step away.
“You have the bid?” Drake asks innocently.
Lewis is gripping his clipboard, staring at me in an intense, worried way. His gaze cuts from me long enough for him to pass Drake a yellow sheet.
I grab my tray that at some point slipped to the ground and walk to the end of the table. Two men mumble drink orders as I pass and I take them down, my brain on autopilot. I make it out of the suite without remembering how I got there.
My palms flatten on the wall several feet away, forehead tipping to the surface. I clench my eyes closed. My hands curl into fists and my legs shake as humiliation and anger fill me.
I punch the wall with the side of my fist, rolling my forehead. Why does this always happen to me? I hate it, hate it.
A warm pressure settles on my arm. It’s gentle, but I flinch. At this point, my mother’s touch would startle me.
I know it’s him before I open my eyes, so I don’t bother. I turn and lean against his chest, covering my face with my hands. Guttural whimpers erupt from my throat, the smooth stroke of his hand on my spine highlighting my body’s shaking.
“What happened in there, Gen?” His velvety voice lures me from the dark, ashamed place inside my head.
There’s no way I’m telling him exactly what happened. I don’t want to think about it, let alone relive it. “You saw what happened.”
He lets out a slow breath as if he’s trying to remain calm. “You have to tell someone.”
Tell someone? Is he kidding? He knows—knows the gist anyway—and that’s bad enough. Lewis is everywhere, witnessing all my humiliations. I look weak in front of him, never how I want to appear. What Drake did to me, my inability to stop it… Does Lewis think I bring it on myself, the way Cali does?
“Gen?”
“No,” I croak.
His hand spreads on my back. “Then I’ll tell management what I saw. They need to know what happened, or you should quit your job.” His voice is firm.
“No. Don’t.” I pull away, pressing my fists to my eyes. They come away moist, but no tears fall. I won’t let them.
I make the mistake of looking up. Lewis’s gaze sucks whatever air I managed to regain. His features—intense, addictive—set off a riot of new emotions. Need, want. But not sexual this time. I want him to hold and comfort me, and that’s even scarier.
I step away, one foot, then the other.
“Gen.” Lewis’s voice pleads, his eyes darting to my quivering mouth, the balled fists at my sides. He doesn’t come closer. He holds himself back.
I don’t blame him. He should stay away.
I turn and run toward the stairs.