Page 85 of The Dixon Rule

I refuse to be afraid of this asshole.

I stalk forward, not mincing words. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing—”

“This isn’t a game,” he interrupts quietly. “You knew I was looking for housing, Diana.”

“And you had to move here?”

My hands are trembling again, this time with rage. How dare he? How fucking dare he?

“It was either that or spend weeks at that fleabag motel on the outskirts of town. I can’t afford to stay at the inn on Main Street for six weeks. This is the best option until my new townhouse becomes available in September.”

It sounds on the up-and-up, but I don’t buy it.

I notice his gaze is fixed on my face. On the fading bruise that he inflicted.

Shane is only a few feet away, so I know Percy won’t dream of bringing up what happened the other night, but he does lower his voice and ask, “Are you okay?”

I ignore the question. “You know what? I don’t care about your reasoning for why you’re here. It doesn’t change a damn thing between us. My last text to you made it clear where I stand.”

Wincing, he has the decency to appear shamefaced again.

“Oh, and while we’re here.” I beckon Shane closer, then take his hand and, very blatantly, intertwine our fingers. “This is my boyfriend, Shane.”

Shane doesn’t go in for a handshake. He nods and says, “Nice to meet you, bro.”

Percy tightens his lips for a second. “Nice to meet you too. If you’ll excuse me…” He lifts the boxes slightly. “I have to finish unpacking.”

As he walks past us, I turn to stare at his retreating back. His shoulders are stiffer than boards. As if he’s the aggrieved party.

“You all right?” Shane asks gruffly. He’s still holding my hand, almost like he knows I need the support, otherwise I’ll keel over.

No, I’m not all right, I want to say.

The need to tell someone what happened is almost suffocating. I want to tell Shane. And Gigi. And my dad. Yet I can’t summon the words. They’re like a frightened animal cowering in the corner, and no matter how hard I try to coax them out, they refuse. They’re stuck.

The confession burns in my throat, and then, for one panicky second, constricts it entirely. No air gets in, and suddenly I can’t breathe. This has happened more than once this week.

“I’m fine,” I manage to say. Miraculously, my voice sounds completely normal.

Shane seems oblivious to the turmoil roiling inside me as we walk to Red Birch, climbing the stairs to the second floor. “When do you want to start rehearsing?”

“For what?” I’m too distracted by my racing heart to focus on what he’s asking.

“The competition?” he prompts, chuckling. “And when are we filming this audition?”

“Right. Sorry. We don’t have to send the video until the end of August, but we should hit the ground running. How about rehearsal on Saturday? I’m only working breakfast and lunch shifts this weekend, so I’m free both evenings.”

“Sounds good. Text me.”

We part ways in the hall, and I practically dive into the solace of my apartment, where I can hyperventilate to my heart’s content.

“Oh my God, Skip,” I moan at my fish. “What the hell is happening?”

Breathing hard, I collapse onto the couch and fight the onslaught of sensation. The contents of my stomach threaten to come up. I really feel like I might throw up. I take a deep breath, then another, until the twisting, churning queasiness starts to dissipate. But my heart is still beating too fast for comfort. It can’t be healthy for a heart to pound this hard.

Why does this keep happening?

You’re having anxiety attacks.

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