Page 5 of Moth
“She’s not dressed like it,” he counters, eyeing my sweater skeptically. “No. It looks to me like she ain’t dressed to party. More like to poke her fucking nose around where it doesn’t belong. A reporter?” He snatches something from my bag—the article scrap. “This you?” he asks me.
“It’s just an articleabouther,” Mara insists. “She didn’t write it—”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” he snaps. “Let the little bunny speak for herself. Are you a reporter, bunny? You smell like one—” His nostrils flare pointedly. “But I’m not sure.”
His eyes zero in on my face, piercing and impossible to avoid. It’s like he sees through me, his gaze slicing to the innermost parts of my being. To those emotions I’ve learned to turn off. Impulses I’ve fought to smother.
He stares and stares, all the while toying with my cell phone.
Then he drops it, only to reach for my journal next. Boldly, he flips it open, lowering his gaze to the first page.
At this point, my control snaps. I step forward, straining the grip of the bouncer who tries to stop me. My lips part, a plea slipping out, violating one of my internal, concrete rules—endure.
I break. “Don’t!”
“Let her go. You can leave.” The younger man waits until the bouncer complies and returns to his position outside of the barrier.
“Rafe,” Mara pleads, “just leave her alone—”
He holds up one finger, and it’s like time stops. I freeze solid, unable to move. Once a few seconds pass, he sits back and leisurely turns the page as if he has all the time in the world. To violate my deepest thoughts and innermost secrets. Gawk at my rawest, unedited writing. Delve into my brain unbidden.
Again, I feel my mental reins strain. “Stop…”
He doesn’t. I don’t think he even hears me. Casually, he licks his finger, then turns the page. Licks. Page. Reads, seemingly riveted by what he’s seeing—and that’s the worst part. The fact that makes my cheeks catch fire and my nails sink into their respective palms.
The pretending.
His two seatmates snicker, rolling their eyes. “Knock it off, Wei.”
“We’re interested in buying ass, and he wants to read some fucking little diary—”
“You can go.” He inclines his head toward Mara, who grabs my hand, surging for the exit. “Not her—” I feel his gaze on the back of my neck, locking me into place. “She stays.”
“The hell she is!” Mara snaps, whirling to face him. “Leave her alone! I mean it, Rafe. Or I’ll call the police. Your issue is with my dad. Then keep it that way—”
“And tell them what?” He sits straighter; his tone honed like a whip. “That your daddy likes to rack up his gambling debts when he isn’t managing that little restaurant of yours into the ground? That he’s dug too deep of a hole to come out? Or that his daughter has to play snitch to save his neck? Come on, Mara, I thought you and your family enjoyed living in a safe, peaceful neighborhood. Keep running your mouth, and it won’t stay that way for long.”
Mara stiffens at the barely concealed threat. Her fingers tighten around my wrist. Tighten…
“Though, you know what? Call the pigs,” the man goads, his laughter cold. “I hear a few even like girls like you, too. Ask around. Or maybe you can go work for Gino and learn firsthand? At least then you’d get paid for it.”
Mara’s face pales as she lets me go. “You’ll be fine, Hannah,” she insists, but she hurries from the enclosed section without me. “I’ll be watching. I won’t take my eyes off you. I promise.”
As she fades from my peripheral vision, my brain does that thing again. Shuts off. Focuses on the most important actions to perform at this moment—breathing. Standing. Staring.
The younger man is still watching me, his head cocked as his fingers continue to molest the pages of my journal. That violation stings more than any other. He’s carelessly wandering over words he couldn’t possibly understand. Mutilating phrases that have literal blood, sweat, and tears mingled within the ink. He’s mauling me with every swipe of his fingers.
And I can’t even look away. His eyes hold me captive, sparkling the more my irritation grows. Like he knows every thought I’m thinking. The hate I’m feeling.
And he’s relishing in all of it.
“Go.” He inclines his head, but again, he isn’t speaking to me.
The two men beside him share a look, but they stand, shaking their heads incredulously. “Damn. You always did have the weirdest fucking taste,” the one with the goatee murmurs, barely audible above the music.
The other man isn’t as subtle. He raises an eyebrow and looks me over, then he cranes his neck to seek out Mara standing along a nearby wall. “You tradedthatpiece of ass for this?”
“I said, fuck off.” The younger man doesn’t take his eyes off me. His tongue traces his lower lip in a quick strike. A threat? Or a warning?
