Page 149 of Paint the Town, Dove
“You know,” Hank gazed at me with this disgusting, beady look in his eye. “You’re a real crotch-rocket. Buoyant young thing, sprightly.”
“Please,” I prayed silently, “please not now, Hank.”
“I don’t want a thing from you, just a nice chat with a nice young thing.”
I didn’t respond. I was too numb, the well inside me overflowing with thick tar, cementing me in place.
Shaking, I clicked Ryden’s contact. He answered on the third ring. “Dove?”
I choked back a sob. “Ryden, can you… can you come home?” I could hear drumbeats and cymbals inthe background. He was at the studio.
“You talked to Hank? He’s letting us stay another month?”
I glanced at the perv picking dirt out of his nails, belly wide, mouth agape.
“Just come home.” I ended the call. He would know I needed him.
“Who’s comin’ home?” Hankaskeddemanded.
“Ryden,” I replied, reaching into my bag, pulling out Sinead’s old blueberry tablets. “Ryden’s going to be here any minute.”
His laugh burst with smoke. “I know that ain’t right, girl. I know that boy’s a rich boy. I know he’s busy while you’re doing splat.”
Hank moved around the table, etched closer to me, placed a hand on my leg with a predatory gaze in his eyes. Before he could say anything, I shot up from my seat, moving to the bar cart he kept behind the magazine rack.
“Drink, Hank?” My nails dug into my palm, the other hand strangling the pills. “You’ve got vodka and rum.”
“I know what I’ve got, I know what I’ve got,” he waved a hand. “Bring me whatever you’re having.”
I’m not old enough to drink, I wanted to say.I’m not old enough to be man-handled by a disgusting fuck like you.
Men like him don’t care.
Men like him should be behind bars.
Men like himshould’ve replaced Emory’s seat in the car.
“Nice ass, girl,” I heard him say from behind me. Every ounce of anger I had channelled into crushing up those pills, hopefully knocking him out until Ryden got home and we could get our shit and leave this hellhole.
My phone vibrated in my pocket but I had a part to play.
I smiled wide as I brought over two drinks. One with water, one with vodkaand something stronger.
“Here,” we clinked glasses. “A special drink for a special man.”
“Well I’ll be, I like the sound of that,” he hacked up snot. “Say, what was your name again? Don’t want to forget the face of an angel after one too many of these.”
My smile held so much poison. So much pain. “Scarlett Emory-Blake, Hank. My name’s Scarlett Emory-Blake.”
***
Men don’t think women have the wolf inside them.
Men believe us to be frail, fragile, incompetent.
There’s a wolf and a sheep inside everyone.
But not me.
