Page 29 of Painted Scars
HR department. What department? They didn’t discipline him, they promoted him despite the sexual harassment complaint, the forced mediation, and whispered warnings. Creeps get ahead in this world.
“No one listens to girls like you.” He inserts his knee between mine. “You’re lucky they kept you on after what happened.”
My stomach hollows. Fucking Burt knows about Blackthorn. The assault. Police complaint that went nowhere. Blacklisted from the industry and lost my job.
Burt reaches for my hair, and I jerk away. “You think anyone’s going to hire a woman who cries wolf against a good man? He sneers. “You should be grateful your daddy begged us to hire you.”
What? I’ve never met the man. The only thing we share is DNA. Period.
Burt touches his belt.
My veins flood with ice.
The office falls away. I’m locked in memory. The bar. Jazz music tapping from the band. Gin spilled on the bar. The creak of the bathroom door behind me. Being shoved into a stall. The reason I don’t go to bars alone or with men. My mouth opens to scream, but no sound comes out.
I’m drowning in the past and can’t stay there. I force myself to come back.
I recite the mantra to break the trauma loop.Five things I can see. Four things I can touch…
A car alarm shrieks from the alley.
I topple out of my seat.
Burt’s head snaps toward the window. “Fuck, that’s my car.”
He bolts from my desk and out of the office.
I choke out my breath and suck in air. I’ve got to get out of here before he returns. Jaw clenched, I clamber to my feet. I fumble to slam my laptop lid shut, pack my bag, and get my coat on. Vision white hot with fury and humiliation, I retrieve the kitty kubaton and pepper spray from my bag, and slide my fingers through the rings. I don’t care if I get locked up for stabbing him. Prison is better than this. I stumble out of the office without locking up.
Cold air punches my face, a jarring reminder of how close I came to being dragged back into the darkness of my past.
Clouds hang thick in the sky and suffocate any moonlight. A lone lamp illuminates the alley packed with cars, some belonging to residents of the lofts next to the Reporter’s office. Music spills from the bar just up the street where Burt invited me. Some of my colleagues go there for a beer after work. I won’t be caught dead there whenhegoes.
Thirty feet ahead, Burt kicks the tire of hisBMWand mutters profanities at the smashed window. Karma’s a bitch and tonight she wears leather.
Fuck. I’ve got to go past him to get to the bus stop on the next street since my car’s getting serviced.
Sucking it up, I hug my waist and pick up my pace, race-walking past him.
Burt’s fingers clamp around my arm, and I yelp and kick instinctively. “Wait. We can still get that drink.”
“Get your fucking hands off her,” a voice as rough as whisky warns.
I roll free of Burt and backstep.
A figure shifts in the gloom. Tall. Biker outfit. Black helmet. Six-three and two-hundred pounds easy. Towering over the five-eight weasel.
My pulse kicks. Fear claws at my spine. Wrong helmet. Wrong man.
“Get on my bike, baby.” The voice belongs to the man from the festival crowd. “I’ll deal with this asshole.” He gestures to the matte black motorcycle that’s been shadowing me parked on the sidewalk.
My hands tremble, but something inside me settles. I crush my weapons harder, the kubaton’s rings digging into my palm.
“Who’s this?” Burt asks like he has a right. “Your boyfriend?”
“I’m a concerned citizen,” my dark knight growls, “and if you lay a finger on her again, I’ll be back for another visit.”
Burt scampers backwards with hands raised. “I don’t want any trouble.” Just like that, he’s gone, running like the squealing pig he is.
