Page 55 of Bitter Rival

I scoff. “Pretty?”

“Yeah, you’re pretty so deal with it,” she says with a smirk. “We can go. The guy Callie’s with said he’ll make sure she gets home safe.”

“Does she trust him?” I think to ask.

“Yeah. They’ve known each other since high school.”

I escort her out the door and into the back seat of the SUV idling out front.

After the driver confirms my identity and pulls onto the road, Daisy looks over at me. “Would you mind telling me what happened back there?”

I stare at her. “Why are you asking me that? You were there.”

“Yeah, I know. But all he did was grab my arm.”

“And push you against the wall,” I grit out. “Did you want him touching you?”

“No, but?—”

“There’s no but about it.” Jesus. I can’t believe she’s even questioning this. “He grabbed you without your permission. He touched you without your permission and refused to take no for an answer. End of story.”

“I know that. But we were in a bar and he was drunk…” She shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal. Stuff like that happens all the time.”

Happens all the time. No big deal.

Her nonchalance pisses me the fuck off. “It wasn’t a big deal, huh? So what would you have done if he tried to force you into giving him something you didn’t want to give him?” I jerk my chin toward her. “What would you have done then, Daisy?”

“That’s not what happened. And if it had, I would have handled it. I know how to deal with guys like that.”

Her words are not putting me at ease. Not even a little bit. If anything, they’re pissing me off even more. “So you have a lot of experience with drunks in bars who grab you. Is that what you’re saying?”

“It doesn’t only happen in bars,” she says with a laugh as if this is one big joke to her. Unfortunately, I’m not amused. “But I can handle it. I don’t need anyone to rescue me.”

I can feel my blood pressure skyrocketing. I take a few deep breaths, trying to rein in my anger and calm the fuck down.

Did I overreact? I don’t think so.

Who knows what would have happened in that dark, empty hallway if I hadn’t intervened?

I keep picturing the bullies’ faces. Those entitled assholes I went to boarding school with. It was only my first week at that school when I saw them coming out of the boathouse, bragging about what they did to the girl inside and how she was “gagging for it.”

I called them a bunch of assholes. Told them it doesn’t make them cool or tough. It makes them sexual abusers.

At thirteen, I still had a strong moral compass and the strength of my convictions. Speaking up was a suicide mission—they were bigger, older, wealthier. It was three to one and I didn’t stand a chance, but I called them out because it was the right thing to do.

The girl changed schools, traumatized. They got a slap on the wrist. I got two years of hell for my troubles.

They shoved my head in the toilet bowl and used it to mop the floor, and from then on, they used me as their human punching bag.

Maybe I’m not known for my chivalry, but I’d like to believe that there is still some small part of me that is decent and honorable enough to defend a woman who says no when a man tries to force himself on her.

“So because this kind of thing happens ‘all the time’ you think that makes it okay?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“No.” She shakes her head. “That’s not what I’m saying. I know it’s not right. But there are a lot of assholes out there. And I know how to take care of myself. I don’t need anyone to?—”

“Rescue you,” I finish.

“Right. All he did was grab my arm. Guys have done a lot worse.”

---