Chapter 11
i hate this dress
Hannah
I wore the dress.
But it’s not my fault.
It’s his fault.
The knot on my forehead, my frazzled mess of a brain, my lost Dum-Dum, my damaged Jimmy Choo, Kristen demanding a dramatic reenactment of our one night together, the carousel of memories that won’t stop since I ran into him, and this freaking sundress that’s made me late for my date with Daniel—all of it is Rowan’s fault.
Okay, the dress is a stretch. But the blunt force trauma rearranged my brain chemistry.
And now I feel an immense pressure for this date to go well as though Rowan’s blow to my head snapped me out of a five-year stupor, church bells ringing, my conscience coming in hot, loudly declaring, “Surprise! You’re still single! ”
I wasn’t self-aware enough in the moment (see: blunt force trauma) to inspect Rowan’s left ring finger, but there’s no way that guy can’t walk into a room without at least a dozen women volunteering as tributes to lock him down within the hour.
If he’s not married, he definitely has a girlfriend. And if he has a girlfriend, then I definitely need a boyfriend. Obviously.
Pre-head-injury Hannah, didn’t care how tonight went. Post-head-injury Hannah, though? Yeah, she needs someone other than the six-two soldier with the muscles of steel and teddy-bear dimples to think about.
Enter the sundress that apparently “guys love.” Where’s the closest toilet I can vomit in, please and thank you.
I pull into the parking lot ten minutes late and immediately regret not recognizing the restaurant’s location when Daniel texted me the location pin earlier.
Pre-head-injury Hannah would have noted the street, the corner, and properly prepared herself.
She wouldn’t have suggested somewhere else because she is mature—a level-headed woman, perfectly capable of being in the vicinity of the bar that shall not be named.
But it was post-head-injury Hannah that replied with a thumbs up emoji without considering where that pin would bring her, and thus, she’s arrived wholly unprepared.
Add this to the list of things that are Rowan’s fault. Gah, he was so cute though.
A few more why God why grumbles escape me as I find a parking spot. I pull down the visor mirror and yank out my hair clip. My waves fall loose around my shoulders, and I wish I’d given myself enough time to freshen up my curls at home.
Thankfully, the ice pack has kept the knot on my forehead from becoming an enormous eyesore on my face.
I throw on a fresh coat of lip gloss and swipe my fingers under my eyes, stretching the skin over my cheeks. This is as good as it’s going to get.
On quick feet, I sneak through the short alley between buildings, berating myself for my tardiness.
Mom would have a heyday on my dating rules if she saw how late I was right now.
Especially if she knew Daniel’s original proposed night for this date was on a Saturday.
I could have given more time and attention to my appearance in that case.
But as I turn onto the sidewalk, purposefully avoiding the neon Bar sign at my back, I remind myself there’s a reason for rule number one.
Rule #1 for first dates: Weeknight plans only.
Any respectable woman leaves herself an out when she’s on a date with a guy she doesn’t know. An early morning meeting at work the next day is the perfect excuse. A necessary excuse, if you ask me, when the guy turns out to be a creep.
Daniel is a creep.
Handsome as he may be, if you’re into the lean, legal scholar, intellectual type—been there, done that, left him at the altar—he’s a creep.
After my fourth not-so-subtle signal for him to stop touching me, I’ve escaped to the bathroom.
First, there was the hand on my arm over appetizers. I casually pulled away without a word, happy to look past it as incidental contact.
Then he brushed a piece of hair behind my ear after the waitress returned with his second drink. Sir, do I even know you? I coughed into my elbow, leaning away from his touch because…germs, duh.
When the entrees arrived, he grazed my shoulder with his fingers. Daniel, what’s my last name? Apparently, dipping my shoulder to reach for my napkin didn’t set off any warning bells in his pea-sized brain, because the final straw was still to come.
This strange man’s hand landed on my thigh as he handed over his credit card to our server. I swiftly pushed back from the table and announced I needed to use the ladies’ room—surely he’s gotten the hint by now.
Not surprisingly, Daniel doesn’t follow my dating rules. Most notably, rule number two.
Rule #2 for first dates: no alcohol.
This one seems like a given in light of rule number one. Yet, not everyone shares my affinity for sobriety around strange men. I have a Manolo stiletto ready to pierce right through the top of Three-Drinks-Deep Daniel’s preppy dress loafers if he even thinks about asking me to get in his car.
I lean in close to the bathroom mirror, fingers moving gently over the small sensitive lump at my hairline.
Funny, a door to the face at the hands of Rowan and the non-existent conversation that followed wherein the only word I managed to say was “huh?” was an infinitely better time than this current date.
Back at the table, I paste on a placard smile as Daniel rises to meet me. “All paid up. I live around the corner. Why don’t we head back to my place for a nightcap.”
My eyes try to roll so hard, but I maintain my composure.
He puts a hand on the small of my back, but I shuffle away and dig through my clutch for some cash. “I’m gonna call it a night, actually. I’ve got an early day tomorrow. Here, let me pay for my half.”
A crease flickers between his brows but is gone a second later, a slimy grin forming. “I thought we were having a good time. Come on, one drink. Please?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I reply, pulling out a couple twenty-dollar bills.
“Are you serious right now?”
My neck jerks. Daniel glances around and steps closer, the smell of gin pouring off him. He lowers his voice. “I spent a hundred and fifty dollars on dinner!”
I hold his gaze hostage for several long seconds because I do not back down from assholes. My face settles into the sort of no nonsense expression I usually reserve for dealing with entitled corporate types. On second thought, Daniel fits the bill perfectly.
“I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. But here”—I tuck the cash in the chest pocket of his shirt and tap it twice—“now you only spent a hundred and ten.”
Two steps is as far as I get before he grabs me by the arm and spins me back to him. His cheshire smile is deceptive, intentionally bright under the attention of the restaurant. Eyes dark and bloodshot, he leans in. “Let’s not let the night end like this.”
I discreetly remove myself from his hold and step back, sucking in a long, slow breath. “No,” I grit out, tone venomous.
The sound of his sinister chuckle sends waves of discomfort coiling in my belly. He stumbles then rights himself on his feet. If I had to guess, he probably had a drink before I got here. Make that Four-Drinks-Deep Daniel.
He lifts both hands in surrender. “Whatever you say. Nightcap for one, I guess. Have a good night.” He makes for the back of the restaurant where the restrooms are, and I dash out the front door.
I pass through the alley, ready to put this date behind me.
Well past sunset, the sky is dark, leaving the parking lot only sparsely illuminated by towering light poles. On instinct, I check my surroundings and keep a steady pace toward my car. With my keys slotted between my knuckles, I press the unlock button. My SUV’s headlights blink up ahead.
CRASH!
The sound from somewhere behind me pierces the night like a crack of lightning. My heart pounds. I look over my shoulder and see the restaurant’s emergency exit door bouncing off the building’s brick exterior. Daniel appears in the space between two cars.
I pick up my pace. Praying the shadows conceal me enough to make it to my vehicle, I try to move on quiet feet though my stilettos make it difficult.
“Hannah! Wait!”
His heavy footsteps gain speed and I launch into a run. Panic and adrenaline propel me forward, but he closes in too quickly.
“Would you just stop?!” he shouts.
I squeeze my hand into a fist around my keys and dart between my SUV and the sedan parked beside me. My free hand reaches for my door handle when he hauls me back by the elbow. My clutch flies off my wrist, landing somewhere at my feet.
My entire body whirls on him, and I put all my weight into the punch I throw at his face. Keys scrape down his cheek. He grunts in frustration as I attempt to deck him again, but he catches my wrist and shoves me against my car with a thud.
“So, it’s gonna be like that, huh?” he spews.
My wrist locked in his grip next to my head, my other hand pushes at his chest. But I’m not strong enough.
I yell. I scream. His hand covers my mouth, and I bite the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He yanks his hand away, eyes blazing. I shout for help again, fighting relentlessly to push him back, but he’s so heavy against me my toes barely touch the ground.
He’s too close, reeking of alcohol, face and hands clammy with sweat. I feel his erection grinding into my hip, and tears well behind my eyes.
“Stop! Please!” I beg. “Help!” I can’t hear my own voice. My throat is dry, vocal cords fractured under the pressure.
Stay calm. Don’t panic.
I growl, scraping my teeth together as I put all my strength into shoving him off me, but I can’t. He’s too strong. His hand locked around my wrist is merciless, and my attempts to fight back only make him squeeze harder.
He shifts his position just for a moment and my foot finds the ground. I jerk my body to the side, take the opening, and swiftly knee him in the groin.
Finally, he stumbles back. Air rushes into my lungs as I move to rip off my shoes so I can run. I only get one removed before Daniel’s moved past the injury I inflicted. Like a bull ready to charge, his terrifying eyes lock with mine a beat before he launches at me.
Keep fighting.
He pins me to the car and I scream again. Metal digs into my skin around my keys. I swing my fist but he catches it and slams it against the window at my back. My ankle buckles under the pressure of only wearing one heel, but I don’t even register the pain.
I brace my forearm against his neck to try and shove him off. It doesn’t work. I claw at his eyes, but he only locks my wrist in his grasp and slams it against the window along with my other hand.
He presses his chest into me, panting gin-soaked breaths on my neck. Sweaty grunts and groans stain my skin as he bucks his hips. I turn my head away, crying out for someone, anyone to hear me.
It’s so dark here. Why the hell did I park so far from one of the parking lot lights?
Sensation wanes in my fingers from the pressure of his grip on my wrists. His knees force my legs apart, his erection pressing into the flesh of my upper thigh.
This fucking dress. I hate it.
The air in my lungs is the only defense I have.
I scream until my voice is hoarse. Until it’s no longer a scream but a cry.
Somewhere in the fray of grunts and curses and pleas and jerking hips, the shadows shift to my left. Out of nowhere, a stranger rushes around the hood of my car. In an instant, Daniel is yanked back by the collar and hurled into the next car over.
The sound of fists meeting flesh is the last thing I hear before I collapse.