Page 38 of Moth
What the hell did I do?
If Branden finds out… Not if, butwhen. When he finds out, he’ll be furious. Paranoid. He’ll resort to his tired old tricks for keeping me in line. Always keeping me quiet.
Though maybe that’s the point. My brain’s sick, masochistic way of reminding me of the dangers of feeling. Or letting anyone get too close, be them a thug or a harmless beat cop.
I live the way I do for a reason. I am the way I am for a reason.
Otherwise…
There’d be nothing of me left.
* * *
A little after dark,my cell phone screen illuminates with an incoming message.
Have a good night. Send me a pic before you go to bed. I need to see your smile.
I grip my phone so tightly my fingers leave smears all over the screen. If Liam mentioned Lexi to him, his casual message doesn’t reveal any of the telltale signs of his anger.
For now.
Night,I type back. I change into my pj’s and snap a picture from my couch. Then I crawl into bed, struggling to find a comfortable position beneath my blankets. Minutes of staring up at the ceiling eventually turn to mindless scrolling on my cell phone.
Mara’s stopped texting me—not much of a surprise, considering I’ve been ignoring her messages.Sorry for being a flake,I start to type. But it’s like my fingers rebel, adding more onto the statement than I mean to.
Let me make it up to you. We should go out tonight.
I stare at the screen for what feels like hours before I finally set it aside, convinced she won’t answer. The second I do, my ringtone pings, and Mara’s message dominates the screen in a series of short, snappy sentences.
Hello, bitch who has been blowing me off. Go to hell.
Not even a minute later, another reply arrives.Yes, I will go out, but you’re buying my drink, skank.
Despite everything, my lips stretch into an unfamiliar position. A smile? It remains as I sit upright and shrug off my blankets. My clothes are still scattered over my floor, but my gaze falls over my brown sweater with white bunnies.
Can I borrow a dress?I type, feeling my chest constrict even before her response arrives.
Of course.But now you owe me two drinks.
* * *
“We’re heading straightto the bar first,” Mara shouts against my ear. “I’ll take two shots, please! Pay up, baby! You owe me.”
I reach into my purse for my wallet. Or at least, I would if I weren’t forced to fumble with a much different model than my trusty knitted bag—a leather clutch of Mara’s. Its glossy black matches the dress she let me borrow. Said dress suspiciously resembles the one she wore the first night we came here—only on me, the effect isn’t quite the same.
My appearance could be summed up with one word. Gangly. Every few seconds, the straps threaten to slide down my shoulders in rebellion of the lack of cleavage they have to support.
Mara, of course, looks stunning in a red mini, her hair swept into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, and her muted makeup flawless. I’m once again struck by her confidence over all else. I swear, every guy within a ten-foot radius has his eyes on her, and her sly grin betrays that she’s well aware of that fact. Taking my arm, she drags me through the crowded dance floor and nearly lunges across the bar counter to get the bartender’s attention.
“Hey, Tony!” she calls to the man in question who leans against the counter, wearing a black uniform. “Load me up!”
Minutes later, she’s happily plied with her third shot when she frowns, her eyes narrowing at something behind me. “Dammit. I swear, chick, you have the worst luck when it comes to clubbing. You must be an asshole magnet or something.”
“Huh?” I follow the line of her gaze over to a different set of private booths from the area we’d been accosted in last time. It’s larger, furnished with a broad, leather couch, and a bar ledge stocked with liquor bottles.
A lone figure dominates the space, and this time, he’s without the entourage. Regardless, he sits like a king, with his head cocked and his posture sprawling. The firm set to his jaw paired with those piercing eyes commands attention from nearly every woman who isn’t here with a date.
I hate myself for watching him longer than I should. For noticing the tight fit of his shirt and how his short sleeves display his muscular, tattooed forearms. I hate myself even more for glancing at his fingers that are braced on his knees—I know I’m blushing.
