Page 15 of Hustle

I went to high school with so many rich assholes like this. Pricks who thought that because I was poor and didn’t look like the popular girls that I should be glad for their sloppy groping and limp dick grinding in my back. Thing is, I like how I look, and humiliating these jerks is still one of my favorite sports.

“Why did you wear khakis to the club? You look like an idiot. I hope they breathe otherwise you’re gonna get some real bad crotch rot.” I keep my tone as pleasant as possible.

“You want to see?” He smirks, grabbing his dick. His two douchebag wingmen chuckle.

“Do I want to see your crotch rot? No. You should see your doctor about that.”

Now his friends are laughing at him. He doesn’t like it. I don’t fucking care if he does.

“Listen, bitch, I don’t care if you’re a hot piece of ass. Don’t think I won’t teach you a lesson.”

It’s so predictable that it’d be laughable if he were by himself. I could drop him with one hard knee to the groin. But his friends give me pause. I take in his pinched, hateful face and lose my temper.

“And what lesson is that?” I snarl, getting to my feet. If he wants a fight, better me than some poor passed out girl he finds later in an alley. “It’s certainly not proper hygiene.” I flip his collar with my finger. “Or good style.”

His friends aren’t laughing anymore. The tension is thick, and I’m staring that fucker down with all I’ve got.

“Let’s go, Brent. She’s not worth it.”

“That’s right, Brent,” I mock, the liquor making me bold. “Time to go home to your mommy and daddy.”

Jesus, that was dumb. But satisfying.

His fist flashes out and I’m ready, but he never makes contact. Seamus’ hand wraps around Brent’s forearm. He looks at Brent’s two friends, who have instantly sobered up.

“Take your friend home,” Seamus drawls, “before I have to teach him why it’s wrong to hit women.”

Brent also seems to have sobered up, shame crossing his face. It hadn’t stopped him from nearly punching me though.

Seamus releases Brent’s hand with a shove, and the three men scurry off.

“What happened?” he asked.

My face flushes and my heart races. The stress of the last few days is just too much. I’m not calm and measured like Seamus by any means, but I try not to be completely stupid about taking shit too far. But the fear of losing my shop, the terror I’d felt under my bravado when Stacy’s goon came for me, and now this? Another man who wanted something from me that I didn’t want to give. If I don’t have some kind of release, I’m going to completely unravel, and I can’t do that and hold onto my shop.

I grab Seamus’ hand.

“Dance with me.” It’s more an order than a question. I need to be out there on the floor, sweating out this nervous energy. This choking frustration.

“I don’t dance, Evi. Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Please?” There’s a desperate note to my voice that I hate. But it works, and Seamus lets me lead him to the dance floor. I press into him, sliding my arms up over his shoulders. With my heels on, I come up nearly to his chin. My face presses into his neck, which is a little scruffy with five o’clock shadow.

I can’t help myself, shivering as I nuzzle against it.

He seems to mistake this for fear and tightens his arms around me. “You’re okay, Evi,” he whispers. “They’re gone.”

“I can fight, you know,” I close my eyes and just enjoy the feel of his arms around me. It won’t last. But maybe it doesn’t need to.

“Oh, I know,” he says. “I remember you throwing down in school. Always with boys. I got in so much trouble defending you.”

“You didn’t need to.” The alcohol is making me hazy. “Why did you?”

“You’re family, Evi. I don’t fight the way you do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

I laugh into his neck and press harder against his body. I want to feel all of him.

Get a reaction.

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