Chapter 13 #2
“Enjoying that?” A man pushed the barstool at my side between his open legs. “I’d offer to get you another, but seeing as drinks are free. . .” he started, before my drink’s replacement was set in front of me.
I switched the glasses, placing my straw into the full glass, and pushing the other away. I smiled in thanks at the bartender, as he collected it.
The guy at my side made his order and gave thanks while I took another sip. Another long sip. I had no idea how many of these I’d drank, but it was a lot, proven by the dozen trips to the restroom I’d had to make.
“Do you know the bride or the groom?” the man asked, a smile lighting up what I could see of his face.
I looked him over, smiling at his blond hair, shining as bright as the sun beneath the romantic lighting.
Blond. . . his hair brought feelings of comfort to me.
“Bride,” I lied.
“Ah, that’s probably how I didn’t recognize you. I don’t know all that many of Calista’s friends.”
“I used to work with her a while back.” I was enjoying the perjury of being someone else a little too much.
“Ah, at the salon?”
I just smiled.
“That’s a beautiful smile,” he said, with his own beautiful smile altering the tone of his words. “The guy you were with, is he your boyfriend?”
“No.” At least that was honest. Though, I failed to mention the husband part.
The blond’s smile grew. “I’m—"
His drink was given, placed on a coaster in front of him, interrupting him from telling me his name. “Thank you,” he told the bartender, nodding his head towards the man who had already moved off to another attendee.
“After we finish drinks, do you want to dance?”
I did want to dance. I wanted to dance all the times before when Hell held out Woodrow’s hand. . . I just didn’t want to dance with Hell.
“I’d love to.” I reached the bottom of my drink, all too eager to get on the dance floor.
I held out my hand, waiting, as my company had barely had two swigs of his ugly-looking drink.
But he didn’t wait to finish, as he jumped from his seat.
His fingers barely touched mine, when I was pulled back by my corset strings like I was some kind of wind-up toy. The man reaching for my hand stumbled back, as a hand pushed hard into his chest.
“What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Think. You’re. Doing?” I heard the words over the music, though they weren’t loud.
He turned me around to face him—my husband.
My would-be dance partner held up his hands in surrender.
A coward. I wouldn’t have wanted one of those, anyway.
I wanted a hero. A man who would whisk me off into the sunset and bring a little excitement.
I deserved it after being cooped up for so long.
. . even if I only wanted it for one night and only as of right now. . . because of half a dozen cocktails.
“Hey, man. I’m sorry. I asked if you were her boyfriend. I did—”
“Hey, just throw me under the bus, why don’t you.” I laughed, turning back to the bar to request another drink.
“She’s had enough!” Hell warned the bartender with his stare, more than his words, not to deliver me another round.
“One more.” I smiled, finger in the air.
“And I’m not her boyfriend,” he said to the blond guy, with a deathly calm tone. “I’m her husband. And it’s extremely fucking hard for me not to want to rip out your throat for even looking at my wife.”
“Apologies.” He didn’t hang around to see that his apology wouldn’t be accepted, but he didn’t need to. I stole Hell’s focus. . . and his anger.
“Lighten up.” I spun back to the bar, my fingers in the air, trying to click for the bartender’s attention, ready to beg for another drink.
It was nice to be intoxicated by something other than fear.
It was nice to feel high, not low. But the bartender didn’t see me, and no sound came from my fingers, my pained bones preventing it.
Hell didn’t say a word to me as his fingers clutched my jaw, and he angled my head to look up at him, expecting me to move in a way that would have been impossible for him.
“Did I upset you?” I hoped so. “I’m so sorry, Master.” I laughed, not caring about the repercussions.
His fingers tightened, lowered, squeezing my throat until I could barely breathe. He didn’t care about an audience, but he didn’t have one. All eyes were on the happy couple.
I locked eyes with Hell, seeing the coldness there, matching his touch.
It was weird to explain, but he was colder as Hell. Always. His skin and his ways.
Warm as Woody.
Perfect as Woodrow.
He lowered, his nose weaving through my hair to my ear. “You’re going to be.”
His hand and sinister promise pulled me backwards from the stool, and I tumbled, like the many others in this room had done today after indulging in too much alcohol.
No one batted an eyelid, not as I fell from the chair. Not as I landed in his arms. Not as he gripped me by the hand and dragged me through the room.
No one noticed as he pushed against the wooden door to the men’s room, and yanked me inside with him.
An older gentleman glanced our way, shock on his face, as the door slammed against the red-tiled wall behind.
His fingers continued zipping up the fly of his pinstripe pants.
My eyes followed the action without a warrant.
Good thing, my unloving husband was still lost in his rage.
It went unnoticed, and for that, I'd go unpunished.
“Get the fuck out.” Hell’s tone was flat, deadly. Void of emotion, like always.
The man sensed the beast lurking beneath his skin. He rushed to the basin and turned on the tap to swill his hands. His eyes were still on us, watching the last of Hell's patience disintegrating.
The man stopped mid-wash, and he didn't hang around to dry them. Brushing his hands down those pinstripe pants, he pulled open the door and hurried through it.
Hell spun me around, tilting my chin upwards with two fingers. “Did you enjoy that!” he asked, his anger spitting into my face, my wrist burning from his harsh grip that still clutched me tightly with his other hand.
I didn't answer.
Harsh fingers found my face, digging in until my mouth popped open wide as if that would make all my words fall out.
He lowered, staring into my face, hunting for my fear as he searched for any lies hiding in my stare.
I refused to look away.
I laughed again, followed by a hiccup that smelled of whatever those orange concoctions were.
Something feral flashed in his eyes, and a second later, I was falling. Hell pushed me so hard, I pirouetted through a cubicle door and fell to the floor. I put my hand out for safety, and narrowly missed the mess in the unflushed toilet.
He dragged me away by my hair, and I cringed, the pain creeping through my alcohol shield.
“You’re very lucky your head isn’t going down there!” He slammed down the lid, the sound blaring in the small room.
On all fours, I tried to crawl away, ruining my wedding dress on whatever liquid stained the floors.
He dragged me back by the ankle.
“Your bones make me sick”.
“You’re not exactly cuddly yourself,” I mocked.
“You were never skinny. It doesn’t look right.” He hoisted me up, lifting me by the throat to my feet.
My legs were weak from our fight, and standing was a struggle.
“Stand.”
I steadied myself, forcing my body to obey, but only because his grip became more violent.
I pulled at his fingers, trying to peel them from my neck bones, which felt like they were closing in on my airway.
“It amazes me that you even thought you’d get away with that stunt out there!”
“I can talk to who I want.” I pulled harder at his hands.
His grip tightened, and he asked with a challenge, “Can you?”
“I’m your wife, not your property.” And neither was by choice, I’d have loved to remind him.
“Ah, poor na?ve little you.” He laughed in my face, his breath, nothing like mine, all minty fresh, thanks to the mint fading into his tongue.
“You’re both my wife and my property, and you’re pathetically stupid if you think otherwise.
I own you. You were a gift for me, not Woodrow.
Me. And there’s nothing you can do about that. ”
Hell’s fingers brushed the skin of my leg, thanks to my dress having somehow been hiked up. I couldn’t remember him doing that.
Another hiccup wandered through my lips.
“I can do whatever I like to you.” His mouth was closer; his words tickled my neck, and they felt good.
“You can kick; you can scream,” he told me, but at this moment, I felt like I’d do neither.
“But you won't win.” His words became a soft purr. “And I won’t stop when you beg me to.” He pulled back, his lips moving close to mine upon his retreat.
I found myself edging forward, even as he pulled away. “You already know that, Jolie.”
He shoved me back and my head hit the cubicle wall, and within seconds, my underwear was down my legs and clutched tightly in his hand, right next to my face.
He kicked my legs wider, and I tumbled in the heels he’d put on my feet.
“I’ll remind you only once more; you are mine. My girl. My wife. My fucking property. And this, this is mine.”
He slapped my pussy, and I jumped, startled by the sting of his fingers.
“Mine. And I don’t want it fucking dripping for anyone else. Do you understand?”
I could barely nod, as his fingers, again, collided with my sensitive skin.
A murmur of breath slipped through before I sealed my mouth shut, choosing to breathe through my nose, which had me inhaling my own scent.
He pulled the string between my legs and took the tampon from inside me, flinging it into the trash can in the corner of the small cubicle.
Startled by a noise from the main space of the restroom, I looked out into the open as the door swung shut, and a man stepped into my view. Of course, it had to be the one I was flirting with tonight.
Hell pivoted me around, still in his arms, still exposed. The man’s eyes fixed on me, his breathing hiking as his gaze dropped. Hell’s lips lifted, allowing the stare.