Page 19 of Broken Pact

“Oh.” I grab the cup from him and shoot him a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

With a smooth movement, he shoulders into the space beside me, leaning over to say something to the girl next to me. He raises his own plastic cup in a salute, and I mirror his movement. “Bottoms up!”

“Right,” I say with nervous laughter. I wiggle my cup a little bit in his direction.

He starts to dance next to me, bobbing his head and shuffling closer to me. For every step I take to the right, he follows. The crowd ebbs and flows like high tide on the beach, moving as one.

His gaze ping-pongs between my eyes and the water cup and back again. “I thought you were thirsty?” he shouts, gesturing toward my still-full cup.

I shift myself away from him, my eyes darting around, looking for the golden girls. I can feel the patented expression on my face already, the look that every woman recognizes as SOS. My heart stutters when I realize that I can’t see any of them. I wasn’t paying attention, and now I’m surrounded by a sea of unfamiliar faces.

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath. I’m also cursing my height. Another thing all the Carter women share: our below average height. I push onto my tiptoes and spin in a circle, trying to find my friends. But it’s pointless—I can’t see them.

He steps into me, planting his hands on my hips. “You good, sweetheart?”

His grip on my hips tightens, holding me to him. Alarm tingles my fingertips, and I grip his biceps in a futile effort to stop him from getting closer.

“I’m not your sweetheart,” I snap, pushing against him.

“C’mon, honey. You’re dehydrated. Drink your water and let’s have a good night together.” His words slur a little bit, and his hands start roaming over my ass.

“Get off of me,” I yell, panic making my voice thready and high.

The relentless beat of the drum consumes me, pulsating against my skin with increasing intensity. What a fucking time for a drum solo.

It feels like he suddenly turned into an octopus and sprouted another six hands. And all of them are grasping at me, squeezing and groping.

My breath is a wild animal, thrashing and clawing its way out of my chest. I do my best to tame it with slow, deliberate exhales.

I know what to do.

I can do this. I can take care of myself.

My muscles tense almost in rebellion as I pull my hands back. But it's all part of the trap. Drop his defenses so he gives me an opening. I’ve practiced this move so many times in my self-defense classes at Lockwood Park that I could do it in my sleep.

We’ll see how handsy he is when I knee his fucking balls into his throat.

My grip loosens, and the cup tumbles from my fingers. Ice cubes clatter to the floor, and the cold water splashes against my ankles. My right foot slides backward, I need to get that momentum to jam my knee upward.

But before I can, the guy stumbles backward, his face contorted with rage and flushing an unnatural shade of red.

“Look what you did, you fucking?—”

“Is there a problem here?” The familiar smooth voice hits my ear a second before his chest hits my back. Ocean breeze and warm summer nights.

Jagger.

11

JASPER

I don’t miss the way she sags into me. From her, it might as well be a skywritten declaration of love.

“Who the fuck are you?” the walking dead man shouts, spittle flying from his mouth.

My lip curls as disgust runs a river of lava through me. Or fuck, maybe that’s jealousy since she let his asshole dance with her for half the fucking night.

I jerk my chin toward the exit. “Get the fuck outta here.”

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