down; because perish the thought of them having to address my face.
"Well, okay"—I take one step— "I'm sure Becca will return to check on you."
"Hey, sweetheart," Mr. Wall says, snagging an inch of my tight shirt between his thumb and index finger and tugging. "You didn't ask my name."
Inhaling through my nose, I allow his tug to bring me close while maintaining a tight-lipped smile. There are men who turn handsy after a few drinks, it goes with the job. "Because I'm not interested," I say with a low murmur, prying his fingers loose and trying to keep from drawing attention.
Instead of releasing me, his giant mitt of a hand cups around my hip like I'm no more substantial than a toothpick. He hauls me against his jean-clad thigh, his thumb dropping low and close to my pubic bone. My muscles tense, and I look toward the bar hoping one of the bartenders will discover my predicament without my making a scene—I need this job—but this table is tucked in the far corner of the restaurant, and I'm between the handsy Mr. Wall and his smiley buddy who shifts his stool and traps me between them.
"That's no way to speak to a customer, darling," Mr. Smiley says behind me. Frosty fingertips graze the back of my thigh, and I flinch.
A slew of obscenities tumble around in my mind, begging for release, as the space between these two strangers and myself shrinks. How in the hell did I wind up in this predicament? I serve drinks. Tightening my fists, my gaze flicks to the drink tray balancing on the edge of their table. I could knock it and cause a commotion, or I could punch the pervert in the balls, or go the straight route and tell him to let me go and draw attention. I do none of the former. I keep my lips sealed. My throat dry, my tongue unable to move. Three years of rape whistle training and seminars about the dangers of walking by oneself fail me when the moment is at hand. I'm paralyzed by the flinty stare of malice in this man's eyes.
"Hey, babe!"
An audible gasp of relief falls from my lips, and my breath stutters at Carter's familiar voice carrying ten feet across the restaurant. I'm grateful when I spy Carter, Owen, Finn, and Frey approaching our dark corner.
A palm cups my front, and tears spring to my eyes, burning as his violation scorches my skin through my clothing. He releases me with a hushed promise, "Another time, gorgeous."
The men—and I'm loathe to call them men—surrounding me slink back into their seats, muttered obscenities sneaking out as masks of merriment slip over their faces. The ease in which they wear the role of upstanding men out for a night of drinks while I stand rooted at their side, bile and fear suffocating me is astonishing.
Owen arrives at the table before the others, his laugh overzealous. "Hey, assholes! What is this, a reunion you forgot to invite me to?"
"Owen!" Two of the men on the opposite side of the table stand and the scene from hell turns into something resembling a frat party, complete with mock punches and bro hugs.
The men on my side of the table lean for fist bumps, and I use the opportunity to retreat. On shaking legs, I move until my ass bumps the wall behind me. I inch sideways, curling into myself and becoming as invisible as possible until I'm out of his reach. Him—Mr. Wall, who touched me and threatened me and … I want to sneak away from this corner. I want to return to the bar, to run from this building.
An arm lands on my shoulders, and I dare a blind swing at the solid body invading my space and swallowing me whole until I'm pressed into his side like we're one. I yelp and cock my elbow to strike, but a heated grip catches my arm.
"Breathe." Carter's beer-scented breath blows across my ear before his face lowers inches from mine.
Blinking, I sag into his side and do as he says. My hand latches onto his leg, my fingers gripping the rough denim for support, and his hold strengthens while I count my breaths and watch the scene playing out before my eyes. Finn and Frey close ranks, their stances rigid and aggressive to anyone with eyes. Owen continues his friendly banter with the assholes at the table whom, for all intents and purpose, behave like they're