Page 21 of Cockpit
He takes a step toward me.
I take one back.
My pulse thunders in my ears when it shouldn’t. I’ve dealt with plenty of assholes like this in San Francisco. Drunk guys who’ve had a few too many beers and let their buzz exacerbate their machismo. Only, we aren’t in San Francisco where people are constantly milling around. We’re in Sunnyville in the back alleyway of a bar where the music is so loud inside that even if I scream, I don’t think anyone would be able to hear me.
Another step.
Another one in retreat.
“My friend just ran to his car. He’ll be right back.” The lie comes out effortlessly, but the lopsided smile he gives me and the way his eyes run up and down every inch of my body tells me he doesn’t believe a word of it.
“C’mon, sweetheart, just a little dance in the moonlight with me won’t do you any harm.”
“No thanks. I have other plans,” I say. The only way out of here is to pass him, but I won’t be able to do that without him grabbing me.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
With my head up, I keep my eyes on his, hoping my direct eye contact might deter him from escalating this situation.
My palms are sweaty.
“Can you please step out of my way?”
My throat is dry.
“Now why would I shy away from a pretty little thang like you?” He slurs a few words, and his gait is unsteady as he sways side to side.
I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or worried that he’s drunk. It’s when I try to skirt past him—just when I think I’m free and clear—that he lunges and has a hold of my bicep.
A laugh falls from his mouth at the same time a shriek escapes mine.
“I don’t mean no harm . . . just want a little kiss.” He fumbles over the words as the stench of alcohol on his breath assaults me.
I yank my arm away, but he holds tight. “Get off me.” I grit out between clenched teeth.
He only pulls me closer. The undertone of cologne. The scrape of his denim against my bare legs. The sting of his fingernails digging into my skin.
Panic. Fear. Anger. All three riot around inside me.
“I just wanna dance. Let’s dance.” He tries to sway to some kind of rhythm as he hums.
My stomach roils, and I freeze when every part of me screams to fight him. Kick him in the nuts. Gouge his eyes out.
Seconds pass. My synapses fire.
“Get away from me!” I shout and shove him off me as hard as I can at the same time I hear, “Get your hands off her.”
Grayson?
Grayson.
It’s a split second between the man letting go of my arm and Grayson pinning him to the wall, using his forearm to crush the guy’s windpipe.
“Sorry, man, I was just trying to have a little fun,” the drunk guy slurs.
“Yeah, and she didn’t want any.” Grayson fists his hand in the guy’s shirt and yanks him off the wall.
“I didn’t—I wasn’t . . .” The guy stumbles, almost falling before he rights himself. “God, I’m fucking drunk.”
