Page 221 of Always Love You More

He narrows his eyes.

I reach for the menu again, desperately wanting to get away from him. But before I can grab it, he snatches my wrist, and I freeze, panic coursing through me.

“Why don’t you watch that tone of yours, huh? You sound like a bitch.”

I pull my hand back. “Then you clearly don’t know what I sound like when I’m being a bitch. Don’t fucking touch me again, or you won’t like what happens.”

He laughs, and the sound only puts me more on edge. “You’ve got a mouth on you, don’t you? I kind of like that. Makes me want to find out what else you can do with it.”

His words hit me like a blow, and I stare back at him like the fucking lowlife he is before walking away without a response.

I don’t know what to do.

What to feel.

I’m angry, I know that. Really fucking angry that men like him think they can talk to me like that. That they think the way I look gives them some sort of right.

But there’s also a feeling of shame, of embarrassment. I know none of this is my fault, but words like his have followed me around ever since I can remember. The continual accusations of stealing other girls’ boyfriends, being called a slut, the crude things boys say to me.

My breathing begins to quicken the farther I get from the table, my mind starting to spiral. I pass by the kitchen, ducking my head in.

Patsy looks up, her gaze finding mine. “You all right?”

I nod, biting my lip.

“You sure?”

“I just … uh … I need a quick break. I’m gonna step outside for a minute; is that all right?”

She watches me carefully. “Sure, honey, go ahead.”

I mutter a thanks before pushing out the back door, bending forward and gulping in unsteady breaths.

It’s not that big of a deal, I tell myself.You’re overreacting.

But the panic won’t stop. The voices in my head won’t stop screaming at me to listen.

I pull my phone from my back pocket and dial Jameson’s number.

He doesn’t pick up, and I mumble a curse, trying again. On the final ring, the call goes through.

“You all right?” he asks, out of breath.

“Were you in the middle of something?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Why are you calling?”

“I’m just …”

“Baby?”

“There was this guy and …” I swallow back the panic in my voice.

“What guy?”

“A customer.”

A heavy door slams before he says, “He do somethin’ to you?” When I don’t respond, he pushes, “You promised.”