Chapter Fifteen – Fawn
Listening, I wait until the last group of girls leaves the bathroom, their gossip following them. Then, I emerge from the safety of the stall, my legs trembling as I exit. The air is different, electric, as if I’d crossed through a storm.
Steadily, I steer myself toward the sink, my hands pressed against the cool surface of the porcelain as if anchoring myself.
The mirror doesn’t lie. Flushed skin, hair falling out of place — I look exactly like what just happened.
My lips pinch tightly, as if they might betray me, eyes still wide with the aftershock of Torin’s touch and his presence.
Yes, he admitted to merely teasing me, but damn, I was so turned on.
His dark eyes enticed me; I wanted to get lost in them.
He pushed against the boundaries of my control, his husky voice wrapping around my frayed nerves.
I was ready to shatter all the rules I’d laid out for myself.
A quick breath in — not that it does much the chaos rioting behind my ribs.
“He was only helping,” I state to my reflection, although my reflection doesn’t appear to believe it. “Just teasing.”
A part of me doesn’t want to go back out there. I could climb out the bathroom window, but I know my ass isn’t going to fit, and someone will find me stuck — half in, half out.
Delilah. I need Delilah.
Straightening, I rummage through my handbag for my phone. One frantic text, and she’ll tell me to pull myself together, be a boss-ass bitch, and face the music.
But before I can even unlock my screen, a notification looms on it. A text from Jason. I knew this was coming, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon.
Bile crawls up my throat and sits there. Nonetheless, my traitorous thumb decides to open the message.
Jason: Didn’t expect to see you acting like a slut. You said you weren’t going to be looking for another guy after me.
Well, that’s a sharp slap across my face — cold and painful. My lungs constrict, making me suck in a brash breath. The bathroom starts spinning, and for a moment, the fluorescent lights sound stridently loud.
Of course, he’d fucking turn something that wasn’t even real into something hurtful. He always did. One moment, he misses me. Next, he’s calling me a slut. I’m not going to respond, because I know that’s what he wants.
Like magic, I vigorously shake my head, as if it can dispel the aftershock of Jason’s message. My constricted throat catches my attention, so I clear it, pointing a finger at the reflection in my mirror.
“Get your shit together,” I order myself.
My posture shifts — shoulders back, chest forward, ready. I am not going to let Jason’s venom ruin my night.
So, I’m going back out there. I’m going to enjoy my time with the guys and remember to have fun.
Leaving my questions and the book for tonight won’t kill me.
Yes, Torin did me a solid and helped me.
Even if he was teasing me . . . I’m a woman, so it’s my choice to go along with it.
I can do what I choose. And as for the moment? I want another drink.
With my new confidence, I run my hands over the front of my dress, smoothing the fabric, patting away the last bits of nerves still clinging to me.
The door to the bathroom swings open, and I enter back into the loud bar, my heart beating stronger, my thoughts sharpened, and something fierce igniting in my chest.
I’ve got this.
I make my way back through the crowd, and Dylan and Torin are the first to spot me. They’re both smiling, Dylan easily, but there’s something harder, grittier, in Torin’s gaze. My gut twists as I wonder if Torin has told Dylan what went down. If he has mentioned anything, for that matter.
Before I can reach them, a deep wolf whistle pierces the music. “Shake that ass, baby. Yeah!”
My body seizes and against every instinct, I turn to look. Yep. A random drunk man is staring straight at me. Great. So the art of catcalling in public isn’t dead, it seems.
I’m not going to react.
Dylan is already on his feet, as if he’s waiting for my command. I raise a hand, let it fall — like I’m telling him to leave it.
As I continue walking, a different voice calls out behind me. Very high-pitched, female.
“Nice choice of underwear, babe.”
It’s Harper. Her voice is sugary-sweet but filled enough with mocking. What is she on about?
Out of nowhere, cool air grazes the skin along my lower left side.
Then, it hits me: the back of my dress is tucked into my underwear. My ass has been on display since I left the bathroom.
For a beat, my feet forget the floor. The bar tilts sideways.
Oh my—
If embarrassment could kill, I’d already be dead.
Every fiber in my body shrivels, every nerve ending tingling in mortification. All eyes, too many of them, trail along the back of me, and like the complete moron I am, I run to the table without fixing my dress. Nope. I make a beeline for Dylan.
He reacts instantly, with no pause or awkwardness. His touch is gentle but swift as he untucks the dress from my underwear, smoothing the fabric back in place as if he has done this a hundred times before. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, steady and sure.
Yes, his fingertips touched my ass cheek, but I don’t care. I’m too concerned with everyone seeing my stretch marks, a part of me I even try to hide from myself.
Harper, of course, has no problem laughing loud enough to be heard over the music, loud enough to make sure everyone hears her. She’s having the time of her life, like my humiliation is her favorite form of entertainment. Definitely not a girl’s girl.
If it were me? If I saw another woman with her dress tucked into her underwear?
I’d whisper it to her. Quiet. Kind. Not . . . this.
“Back off, Harper,” Torin’s voice slices through the static, deadly low.
Her face instantly drops.
Dylan nudges him in the elbow, but Torin’s glare isn’t wavering. He looks like he’s wanted to say that to her for years. His teeth lock together like he’s ready to rip the entire bar to shreds if I asked.
My breath catches, ragged and erratic. “Fuck—” My hand is pressed to my chest. “Everyone saw my ass.” The words taste like defeat.
My heartbeat remains in full-blown panic mode until I lay eyes on salvation itself — a tray of six shot glasses, three of them empty, three of them waiting obediently. The neon green color is screaming to be drunk, to help me forget what just happened.
My hand finds one before my brain catches up, and down it goes. The burn trails the entire way down my throat, already feeling like a river of regret and poor choices. I try not to hack up a lung, but my eyes water in response. Good God, it’s been too long since I’ve taken shots.
I gesture to the last two shots. “May I?”
“Uhhh,” Torin says.
“Yeah, sure. A few were Torin’s, but he’s driving—” Dylan begins.
Too late.
Both shots are already gone, thrown back before each man can blink. The burn hits immediately, a sweet, bitter punch right to my chest.
Torin sits there, staring at me in shock. Dylan struggles to hold back laughter but can’t. “You good now?”
“Everyone’s still looking at me, aren’t they?” I mumble, my eyes fixed on the sticky floor as if it might suck me in if I wished hard enough. “I wanna go—”
“Fuck them,” Torin interrupts. He locks his jaw, scanning the room as if he has a personal stake in every single patron daring to glance my way.
Dylan is up before I register, his stool screaming against the floor. “I’ll give them something to fucking look at. Watch this.”
Before I can even form the question of what that means, he is off, sprinting to the bar as if he has a mission. And then . . . oh no.
Oh, yes.
He pulls the hem of his shirt up over his head in one big, dramatic move.
Suddenly, his perfect six-pack is on full display, every line catching the bar’s neon lights, and the tattoo sprawled across his back flexes.
As if on cue, ‘Whenever, Wherever’ by Shakira starts blasting through the speakers, as if the music itself is egging him on.
Torin and I share a look of confusion, our brows knitting together.
Is this happening? Is this really happening? Then, we refocus our attention back to Dylan.
He’s now climbing onto the bar, shirtless. Yes! Shirtless and in front of the entire crowd.
Unbothered and full of confidence, he starts dancing.
Full hips, full commitment, full cheesy, and a thousand-watt smile. His arms go up, his hips moving from side to side, his hair swaying. Suddenly, the attention of everyone in the room has forgotten I — and my ass — exist.
The crowd loves it. People are cheering. Someone is whistling. A bunch of girls are screaming as if it’s a boy band reunion tour.
And then, as if this moment isn’t insane enough, Dylan takes his T-shirt, like he’s pitching in a game of baseball, and chucks it into the crowd.
It arcs nicely through the air. Some girls try to catch it mid-air, but it hits Torin squarely on the head.
Torin stands statue-still. The shirt clings to his face like a dismal, wet cloak.
I half-laugh, and my eyes betray me, burning at the corners. Torin pulls the T-shirt off himself slowly, his face impassive, his dignity barely intact.
“I hate him,” he states seriously, but the corners of his mouth betray him and twitch.
I track Dylan’s movements, eyes drawn to the sway of him.
It’s like he’s meant to be in the spotlight.
Before I can think, my lip is between my teeth.
Oh, to be as confident as he is. He looks good up there.
Too good. He has the potential to make a good living as a stripper if he ever decides he no longer enjoys running the ice rink.
He’d be extremely successful, no question.
He dances better than half the girls in here. Maybe all of them.
He mouths every word to the song, twirling away in his own world. It shocks me to think he’s a Shakira fan, but here he is, dancing like he’s been studying her choreography for years.