Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
I look away, down the hall, trying and failing to keep my voice even as I speak. “Come on, Patrick. I’m working.”
“Are you? The way I see it, you’re making eyes at those basketball players back there. You think one of them will notice you?” He snorts like the idea is absolutely ludicrous. “Don’t hold your breath. You’re no better than the rest of us, Raelynn—trash.”
He spits when he speaks, the spittle landing on my cheek. His grip tightens on my wrist, stinging my skin and no doubt leaving a mark. The pain tangles with the disgusting feeling of his spit on my face and drives out the last of my good sense.
I turn back to look at him, jut my chin up, and yank my arm away with all my might. It throws us both off balance. I teeter back against the wall and he stumbles to the side, barely catching himself before he falls over. “You think I don’t know that?” I hiss at him. “You think I have any hope of escaping this place?”
I did leave once and I thought it’d be for good, and yet here I stand, smelling like grease and coffee grounds, wearing a stained apron and threadbare sneakers. He thinks calling me trash is going to hurt, but I’ve shed any ideas of being good, or bad, or worthy, or worthless a long time ago. I don’t have the time or the luxury to fixate on what I am. I’m too busy just trying to get from one day to the next, and in that way, I’m untouchable. Patrick’s opinion of me doesn’t matter, but there is someone I don’t want looking at me with disgust, and he’s standing at the end of the long hall now, watching Patrick and me.
I don’t know how long Ben’s been standing there, but I straighten my dress and wipe Patrick’s spit off my face as he starts down the hall toward us.
Patrick sees him a beat after I do, and he clears his throat and plasters on a big smile.
“Hey man.” He extends his hand out for Ben. “You enjoyin’ the food? Let me know if I can get you anything. I’m Patrick O’Neal. I own the place.”
No you don’t, I want to snap. You don’t own shit.
Ben doesn’t even look at him, much less accept his outstretched hand. His assessing gaze stays focused on me as if waiting for me to gain the courage to meet his stare.
Patrick glances between us, frowns, and then backs up down the hall, sensing that he’d be better off leaving before Ben turns his attention on him.
I stay right where I am, leaning against the wall as Ben walks closer to me, passing Patrick. I’m looking back down the hall at Patrick’s retreating back, clenching my jaw to try to get a grip on my emotions.
“Are you okay?” Ben asks quietly.
Those three little words scrape against the edge of my resolve.
I nod and stay silent, keeping my profile to him so he can’t see too much of my face.
“Has that happened before?”
What? I want to press. Has what happened before? What did you see? The part where he put his filthy hands on me without my consent? Or the part where he called me trash?
I can’t get my mouth to work. Coherent words seem to be insurmountable at the moment. I’ve kept a tight lid on my life these last few months. There’s no one I can call to blow off steam. No friends to drink away my sorrows with. Answering Ben’s question and granting him access to me in this way is a horrible idea. Letting him act the part of my white knight will only end badly for me. He’s not intervening because he cares. He probably had to take a piss and now here he is, forced to ask the poor waitress in the roadside diner if she’s okay so he can sleep at night knowing he’s a good guy.
Embarrassment washes over me, and the sensation is almost crippling. I feel nothing when Patrick calls me names, but knowing Ben might have heard, having him look at me right now, caught in this state of vulnerability is proof that my claims of indifference are bald-faced lies. I might not care what Patrick thinks about me, but I care a whole hell of a lot what Ben might think, and that pisses me off.
I sniff and finally gain the courage to look at him.
I plaster on an easy smile, pushing past the tightness in my cheeks.
“Has what happened before?” I ask, repeating his question, trying to sound carefree. “People bumping into each other in the hallway? Sure, all the time. Did you need something at your table? More water?”
His cunning eyes narrow and his dark lashes cluster together, emphasizing his sharp-edged beauty. For one, two, three seconds our gazes lock as my breath halts, arrested in my chest. Then slowly, his gaze pointedly drags down to where Patrick left an angry red mark on my wrist.