Chapter 81: Don't Be So Fierce

Isabella's POV

I stood in the bathroom for five minutes, pulling myself together before going back out.

The hallway was even more crowded now. People everywhere, wandering around with drinks in their hands.

I didn't want to go back to the booth.

Maurice wouldn't even notice I was gone. And if he did, he'd just go "mm-hmm" and keep clinking glasses with his friends.

I left through the side door.

The night air hit me, carrying the sour smell from the street trash cans. Still, it was ten times better than inside.

Outside the side door was a narrow alley, walls covered in faded posters, a half-broken wall lamp overhead flickering on and off.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

Finally, some quiet.

"Hey."

A guy walked out from deep in the alley, beer bottle in hand, walking all wobbly.

Blond short hair, blue polo shirt with the collar popped up, face flushed red from alcohol.

"You alone?" He walked toward me, his eyes sliding from my face down to my neck, my waist, my legs.

"I'm waiting for someone." I stepped aside.

"Waiting for who? Your boyfriend?" He moved closer, less than a step away. "Your boyfriend leaves you alone in a place like this?"

"None of your business."

"Don't be so mean." He waved his beer bottle. "I saw you inside earlier, dressed like that, sitting in the corner, nobody paying attention to you. Pretty sad."

He moved closer again. The alcohol smell hit my face.

"Back off." I stepped back. My back hit the brick wall. No more room.

"Just chat for a bit." He put his hand on the wall next to my head, half his body leaning in.

"Get away from me."

His hand touched my thigh. His fingers were ice cold, damp with beer, sliding up along the edge of my short skirt.

I shoved hard at his chest. He didn't budge. He was way heavier than me, his body pressing down like a rock.

"Stop pushing. I'm not gonna do anything."

"Let go of me." I struggled with all my strength, tried to knee him, but his leg was blocking me. I couldn't move.

I opened my mouth to scream. He covered it.

"What are you yelling for? The music inside is so loud, nobody can—"

"Where the fuck do you think you're putting your hands?"

A sharp female voice exploded from the alley entrance.

The guy froze.

At the alley entrance stood a short-haired girl, black leather jacket, Doc Martens boots, beer glass in hand. Skinny and tall, standing there like a blade.

"Babe." She walked toward me, her voice loud enough for the whole alley to hear. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

She walked over, put her arm around my shoulders, pulled me to her side, then turned to stare at the guy.

"This is my girlfriend. Did you just touch her?"

The guy's face changed. He looked at us, then at her glass, which she looked ready to throw.

"Fuck... fucking lesbians... sick." He backed off, muttering curses, stumbling away.

After he was gone, my legs gave out. I slid down the wall.

"Hey, you okay?" She crouched down to help me.

My whole body was shaking. The spot on my thigh where he had touched me made me want to throw up.

"Thank you."

She pulled out a tissue and handed it to me. "It's okay now. Guys like that just pick on weak targets. I'm Lisa."

"I'm Isabella Taylor."

"Who did you come here with tonight? Why are you out here alone?"

"With my boyfriend. He's inside drinking."

Lisa raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.

"After drinking this much, can you stand up?"

I nodded, used the wall to stand, my knees still shaking.

"Need to call the cops?"

"No. He didn't really do anything. You came in time."

Lisa looked at me for a few seconds, then pulled a business card from her pocket and pressed it into my hand.

"I run a tattoo shop on Maple Street. If you run into assholes again, or need help, call this number."

"Thank you, Lisa."

She patted my shoulder and headed toward the alley entrance. After two steps, she turned back.

"Isabella, if your boyfriend can't even keep his eyes on you, he doesn't deserve to be your boyfriend."

She left.

I stood in the alley clutching that business card, my fingers still trembling.

I pushed open the party's side door. Cheering sounds poured out—whistles, table slapping, a group of people shouting "one more time."

My heart sank. I wiped my face, stuffed the tissue back in my pocket, and walked in.

When I got back to the booth, I froze.

They had cleared a space in the middle. Sophia was sitting on some guy's lap, arms around his neck, grinding back and forth. A circle of people around them clapped and cheered.

Maurice sat directly across, face bright red, slapping the table and shouting, "More. More."

Sophia got off that guy's lap, swayed a few steps, and sat down right next to Maurice.

Not next to him. Half her body was leaning on him.

Her arm draped over Maurice's shoulder, her head tilted into his neck.

Maurice was grinning at her, one hand still slapping the table. He didn't push her away. He didn't even dodge.

My nails dug into my palms.

"Maurice."

He looked up and saw me.

"Isabella. Where did you go? Come on, come here."

"We're leaving."

"Huh?"

"Going home. Now."

He stared at me for two seconds. His smile slowly faded.

"Isabella, everyone's having a good time. Don't be a buzzkill."

"You've had enough to drink. We should go."

"I haven't had enough. I'm telling you again, can you stop being a buzzkill? Every time I go out with my friends, you pull that face."

"Maurice, you promised me."

"What did I promise?" He suddenly stood up, the chair scraping against the floor with a harsh sound.

The booth went silent instantly. Everyone was looking at us.

"You got first chair, and I celebrated with you too. What more do you want?" His voice was twice as loud as usual.

"Maurice, keep your voice down."

"You're always like this. Never satisfied. Didn't I come to this party for you?"

He grabbed my wrist. His fingers clamped around my wrist bone like an iron vice, twisting hard.

Sharp pain exploded. I gasped.

"Maurice, you're hurting me."

"Get the hell out of here." He threw my hand away. "Leave if you want to leave. Stop embarrassing me here."

A ring of bright red finger marks on my wrist, the skin underneath already turning faint purple.

I stood there in a daze. People around us either looked down at their drinks pretending not to see, or exchanged glances.

Not one person spoke.

Tears welled up. I bit my lip, forcing them back.

I turned and left.

I pushed open the door. Cold wind hit my face. My wrist hurt like hell. The sensation of that man touching my thigh was still there. My stomach churned.

I pulled out my phone and called Mia. Six rings, then voicemail.

I hung up.

The wind on the street grew colder and colder. I was wearing a thin crop top and short skirt, shivering.

Terrence was having dinner with his war buddies. Their once-a-year gathering. I had no right to disturb him.

But I didn't know who else I could call.

The bruise on my wrist showed purple-blue under the streetlight.

I pressed the dial button.

One ring.

Two rings.

"Isabella?"

"Terrence."

Silence on the other end for a second.