my journal. Its cover glints in the neon lighting as he takes the woman’s arm and melds into the crowd with her.
And I can’t even muster up the energy to chase him.
My hand paws at my throat, following the sting of his knife as his words echo in my brain. I want to meet that monster. I want to know what makes a little rabbit like you so damn hard she doesn’t flinch when a man presses a knife to her throat…
“Hannah!” Mara exclaims from beside me. I jump. It’s as if she appears out of thin air to grab my wrist. I only have enough sense of mind to gather up my belongings and shove them into my bag before she’s dragging me after her through the dance floor and out of the club entirely. As the fresh air displaces most of the noise, I finally realize that she’s been speaking to me this whole time.
“I’m so, so sorry. Those assholes… I knew they came here sometimes, but I wasn’t thinking. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I know! Come to my spoken word tomorrow. It will be a nice, quiet night—”
“You don’t have to apologize.” Again, it’s one of my instincts. I’m the one who spews out the apologies in the end.
Unwilling to play along, Mara just shakes her head. “Bullshit! I do. And I’ll owe ya one for life. Just… Just don’t tell anyone about that shit, okay?” She eyes me warily, biting her lower lip. “Rafe is a total dick, but he’s harmless if you don’t piss him off. Think of him as more of a gatekeeper. Living around here, you were bound to meet him anyway.”
I don’t miss the resignation in her voice. “Who is he?” I ask.
“Just the local, resident asshole,” she says. “Let’s say his uncle commands a lot of respect, and Rafe thinks he’s hot shit just because he handles business for him.”
“Business?”
She rolls her eyes. “Being a dick to all of the local business owners so that they pay him. All so that he and his merry band of assholes don’t become bigger dicks. It’s not as dramatic as it sounds.” She swipes at her cheek, and I stare in alarm.
We’re nearing the intersection that joins this backstreet with the main road. It’s brighter here, and I can make out the telltale smudges disrupting her once perfectly applied eyeliner. She was crying—she was that scared.
“Are you okay?” I place my free hand on her shoulder, sensing the slight tremors wracking her slender frame. “Mara—”
“Rafe and those guys… They’re just punks, alright? It’s nothing.” She faces ahead, squaring her shoulders even though her grip on my wrist remains so tight her nails are digging into my skin. “Don’t worry about them. They won’t mess with you again. But damn, girl… You have balls; I will say that.”
“Huh?”
She shoots me a funny look. “I’ve never seen anyone stare him down like that. It was as though you weren’t afraid of anything. And he liked it. All the dumb bitches around here throw themselves at Rafe, but I’ve never seen him get a hard-on like that without anyone flashing their tits at least.” Genuine awe taints her tone, and I shake my head, my cheeks burning.
“Yeah, right.”
“Yeah. I’m right,” Mara says without missing a beat. “It’s a good thing you’re a nice, wholesome girl. It’s better if you stay away from him. Though, he is cute.” She frowns, her eyes narrowing. “If he weren’t such an asshole, I’d even let him ink me.”
“Ink?” I feel my cheeks heat further. Despite my designation as a twentysomething, modern-day slang isn’t my forte. “Is that a weird way of saying hook up?”
“No. He runs a tattoo shop downtown, though he’s exclusive about who he takes as a client. It’s invitation-only as though he’s some kind of ‘illustrious artiste.’” She makes finger quotes. “I did hear he was a good fuck, though.”
In my brain, those facts don’t negate his obvious instability. Certainly not enough to explain the genuine appreciation coloring her voice. “Good sex makes up for him being a psycho?”
“Of course not.” Mara sighs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not a slut or anything, Mother Theresa,” she mutters, her frown apologetic. “I just have eyes. Some of us can’t be innocent little virgins who cast judgment on the rest of us sinful mortals.”
“I’m not judging you,” I say.
“Sure, you aren’t.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re such a cliché. The sheltered,