Page 14 of The Billionaire Babe

“Cheers!” we all say, giggling, clinking our glasses as we survey the room.

“There are a lot of people here tonight,” Chloe murmurs.

“Let’s dance before it gets too busy,” Chelsea says, and we all nod before following her down to the dance floor.

As soon as we start to dance, I know it was a mistake. My smile leaves my face as the crowd piles around us like we are a magnet. I blame Chloe. She is super popular on socials, so everyone obviously knows her.

I try to get into the beat, hoping the crowd thins a little, and I see the other three girls laughing and twirling so I decide to just go with it. As my body sways, I feel hands on me and move in the opposite direction. A few dance steps to my left, and I think I am safe, until I feel more hands grabbing at my hips and grazing my butt.

Shit. I look up to the girls and see a few guys now positioned in between us. I don’t know any of them, and I don’t feel safe now that my friends are just out of reach. A man sidles up, his hips moving, gyrating against me. I try hard not to grimace, not wanting to be impolite, but he is seriously too close. It is hot. Sweaty. Loud.

I put up my hands, palms facing out to try and show I am not interested and step away from him. Dancing back toward the girls, I realize they have all partnered up with some men I am positive they have never met before. It’s just dancing, Val. Just go with it. I roll out my shoulders and take a deep breath. The music changes to something more up-tempo and people start jumping. I feel like I am getting swallowed up, and the heat of bodies is almost overwhelming. Needing air, I push my way to the bathrooms on the other side of the dance floor and feel relief when I finally break through the crowd. I don’t try to find my friends, knowing they are okay, and instead walk down the dark corridor and push inside the bathroom to freshen up.

Rinsing my wrists under cold water to cool off, I take a moment to fix my hair. The sweat is already making it puff up, and I try to tame it with no luck. The bathroom is empty so I apply some fresh gloss and decide that I will ignore the dance floor and go straight back up to our lounge to wait for the girls there. I probably should also have some water, my father’s words about losing a few pounds ringing in my ear as I look at my side profile in the mirror. I’m wearing a new designer, a gold dress that shimmers and is tight over my curves. My stomach protrudes a little, and I suck it in, but with a few glasses of champagne already consumed, there is no hope of looking any slimmer.

I sigh at my reflection, knowing my father would be less than impressed if he saw me now. As I throw my gloss back in my bag, I feel my cell vibrate and pull it out. It is a notification from my social media, and I click to open it. It’s a message from a user called Valisawhore. I sigh. I should just ignore these, but with some time to kill and the bathroom being nice and quiet, I take a look.

Valisawhore: Dressed like a little whore tonight, you’re asking for trouble.

My breath gets caught as I look at the message. Is someone following me? I look at my reflection and pull at my dress before I shake my head. This is exactly what they want. Me to be scared, have doubts. What an asshole. My fear turns into anger as I quickly delete and block the user from contacting me again. It is nothing new. I have dealt with these things in the past, and I am not going to let them get to me this time. I try to not give them much thought, but as I look at my reflection again, this time with a more critical eye, I try to pull my dress down a little. Is it too short?

I huff at myself and take a breath to steady my shaking hands. I hate those messages even more than the lies that Society News prints. Gathering my things, I push out the door and walk back down the hallway, resigned to the fact that I am just not good enough for my father and now a member of the public has nothing better to do on a Friday night than troll me on the internet. Lost in my thoughts, I only make it a few steps down the hallway when an arm grabs me from behind.

“Hey, sugar.” A man who looks a little unstable on his feet almost walks right into me.

“Excuse me.” I try to be polite, even now as I wrench my arm out of his tight grip and away from him.

“Where are you going?” he growls and grabs my arm again, even tighter. I wince because it is painful and my heart races in fear. His eyes are red. It is the same guy who was trying to grind on me on the dance floor.

“I'm not interested,” I grit out, fear and anger both starting to well as I try to pull out of his grip again.

“Oh, baby, but I am very interested.” I smell the sour aroma of alcohol and sweat as he steps closer to me. Panic takes over. I’ve been propositioned before. Touched, grabbed, and groped. But a new terror runs through me tonight at this man, because I am alone in a hallway where no one can hear me if I scream.

“How about we go down the end of the hall here…” he groans in my ear, pushing his hips into my body, telling me exactly what he wants us to do. I try to turn away, not wanting him anywhere near me, before I feel a gust of wind across my skin and the man is no longer there. The grip on my arm is gone, and I gasp as I look up to see the infuriating security guard slamming his body against the wall.

“Get your fucking hands off her before I break every one of your fucking fingers, asshole,” he growls, and I push myself back against the opposite wall as I watch in anticipation. My senses are overloaded at how strong he is. His stance is tall and broad, veins running thick in his forearms, the look on his face deadly, and I swallow as heat consumes my body. His gaze is hard, not looking at me, but looking directly at my attacker. I have never had anyone step in for me before. Not like this.

He grips the guy’s shirt at his neck and slams him back against the wall again. I jolt, the sound loud and the action done with such force, I am sure the drywall cracks behind him. I remain quiet, too scared to talk or move, my heart racing, my stomach clenching, wondering what he is going to do.

Because he looks livid, and fighting him, I am almost positive would be deadly.

8

AJ

I slam his body against the wall with so much force I think I break the drywall. I will take great pleasure in ripping each of his fingers from his body. Every piece of skin that touched her, I want gone.

“Hey, man, she was asking for it,” he pleads, and I pull his body back toward me to slam his back into the wall again, the movement quick, the noise of it loud, his wail sounding like a two-year-old. I hope I broke his ribs.

“Just fucking open your mouth again and see exactly how angry I am. Do it.” I feel murderous. I hate men who put their hands on women like that. I saw my mom taken advantage of a lot as a kid, men always coming past our house to see what they could get away with. Eventually, it wore her down, and she gave up every time a man came to the trailer, almost like her life left her body and she didn’t care anymore. My teeth grit together as I eye him, about to throw a punch in his fat, reddened cheek as I hear the thumping steps of my team from behind me.

I was watching her. All this time while she was being mauled on the dance floor. My jaw is sore from how hard I clenched my teeth, watching all these fucking assholes grab at her when she clearly didn’t want them to. I felt relief when I saw her get off the dance floor and go to the bathroom, and I watched her from the dark spot at the end of the hall. I saw him grab her; I saw him try to take what isn’t his to take. My skin feels like it is on fire. With only a few weeks to go before my fight, there is no other AJ in me other than the fighting machine. I am a danger to be around and certainly bad for this idiot’s health.

“What happened?” Brady asks as I step back, not taking my eyes off this asshole, even as my men grab him on either side and start pulling him down the hall.

“Get him out of here. And all his friends. Banned. Forever,” I growl, and my team drags him away.

“You can’t do that!” he yells.

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