Page 172 of Catfish

“Miss Shelton?” Glancing up from my cell, the speak of the devil stands in front of me with a look of worry casted on his semi-sober face.

“Yes?”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Can you come help with something that—I need your help.”

My brow raises. “What happen—” He’s already turning on his heels, heading for the back of the hall, and, like the good party planner I am, I follow him to see what disarray or what expensive thing this asshole broke.

The moment he steps into the kitchen is where I’m expecting my heart to almost hit the floor. My first thought is that this moron lit half the kitchen on fire, but then there would be smoke billowing in the hall.

They had a food fight, I’d never hear it over the consistent hits of Jay-Z for the last four hours.

I bet a couple is fucking on a stovetop right now. I wouldn’t stop it, I’d just light one of the burners and walk away.

I told all these little douchebags to stay in the hall. Mila has the night off, and I sent Sadie to grab more ice because, of course, the ice maker broke out of nowhere. Didn't think that the twenty to thirty minutes she was gone would flip this place upside down like it was a remake of the movie Daddy Day Care.

Looking around the kitchen, nothing is seared or out of place. Not a speck of food is on the floor, and Elijah keeps walking through it.

“Mr. Montgomery,” I call out. “Do I need to call an ambulance or—”

“No, it’s not that bad,” he replies, rounding a corner.

I pick up my pace, clutching my hands at my side because they want to belt him across the face. Regardless of what I want to do, I honestly don’t have the damn time to clean up his mess, if he made one, I’ll have to do it later.

About to turn the corner he just disappeared behind, I'm suddenly yanked by my forearm and into a small lit pantry with shelves of dry foods.

My back slams into one of them, and Elijah's face is right there. The smell of vodka and olives on his breath as he presses his lips to mine.

This is living on the streets 101, never follow a man in a dark alley. Or in this case, a pantry closet.

My body recoils from the feel of his lips, but he has one of my wrists in his palms while the other just propelled into his shoulder to no avail.

“I need help with my zipper, sweetie,” he coos, dragging his lips to my chin because he’s so fucked up that he doesn’t know where my lips are.

“Fuck me, she’s hot.” My whole body goes on flee and fight mode as another male voices penetrates the small space.

My adrenaline kicks into high gear. My heart slows, and I can’t feel anything but the need to grab my blade that I keep stashed in my bra.

Prying my hand in between Elijah and I to get down my dress, another set of soft hands starts to draw the hem of my dress up.

"Hey, sweet thing, you're the party planner?" I don't respond, focusing on my fingertips touching the handle of my weapon. This can turn ugly real quick, especially when it's two on one.

“I was hoping my dad would get me a stripper,” Elijah states.

“He did,” his buddy retorts, already latched on to the lace of my panties.

Elijah's lips try to connect with mine again, but I jerk my head away. "They're ugly as fuck, and I've been eyeing this piece of ass all night."

My index finger touches the blade, and I turn my head to face the little twat who thought he was going to rape me at the party I was hosting for the shithead.

“Go fuck yourself,” I seethe. My knee immediately comes up to connect with his groin as I flip open my switchblade and hover it over his white-as-a-sheet friend’s face. “Get the fuck out of my way, dickhead.”

He moves, letting me get to the door, and the moment my hand reaches the doorknob, his grip lands on my shoulder. I hear him yell out in pain, that's the only thing I remember as I push the door open to get out.

Then I’m rushing through the tiled kitchen in my heels, needing to get out to where there are people and away from them trying to bring me back for round two.

The crowd is still bumping to the music, and that's when I see Sadie leading a bunch of guys with bags of ice. The moment her eyes find me, they widen, and she extends her stride.

“What happened to your dress?” I look down to find my cream-colored strap now torn from my shoulder.

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