Page 79 of And Then Came You

Lucky for me, Gianni is the quintessential host—personable and amusing. He provides a wonderful distraction from my broken heart and hopping mad date.

After an hour, I excuse myself, grabbing an additional glass of champagne and heading to the outside patio. The evening is chilly and I hear the rumbling of thunder in the distance. Hopefully, the showing will wrap before the rain arrives.

Nothing like a downpour in Manhattan to sodden the spirits. I’ve tried running in four-inch heels during a rainstorm.

Do. Not. Recommend.

“Waiting out here for Gianni?”

I turn and catch Damian’s sneer, his eyes reddened from one too many glasses of whiskey. “I was getting some fresh air.”

“You two are very friendly. At least now I know why you’re not fucking me.”

My jaw drops open in a gape. “Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you’re screwing Gianni. It’s written all over the two of you.”

My anger bristles at his snide—and entirely incorrect—insinuation. “Then you better learn to read, because Gianni and I are just friends. Always have been, always will be.”

“Right,” he mumbles, slugging back the rest of his whiskey. “Should have known you’d be like this.”

Normally, my meek mouse mode would come into play, but flashbacks of my initial meeting with Sam drift across my mind, when he told Carl in no uncertain terms where he could shove his misogynistic opinions. Then he delivered me a stern lecture, stating I don’t need to put up with a man’s crap.Anyman’s crap.

On that point, Sam is dead on balls accurate.

But I’m not getting into a pointless argument with a drunken man. It’s a fruitless endeavor. Time to make myself scarce.

“On that note, I’m going to take my leave. Have a nice evening.”

His hand reaches out, gripping my upper arm, his fingers digging into my flesh.

“You’re hurting me, Damian.” I fight to maintain an even keel, keenly aware that there’s no one else on this patio, and the rumbling thunder and ever-increasing wind will muffle much of the sound.

I’m not sure which is worse—that I have the experience to take these facts into account or that I might be involved in another tussle with yet another man.

Positive thoughts, Lexi. You’re likely paranoid.

“Stop lying to me and I’ll stop hurting you.” He backs me against the wall, his hand snaking under my skirt and cupping my mound. “It’s about damn time you put out.”

The panic sinks in as I push his hands away from me, squirming against the wall in a desperate bid for escape. “Get your hands off me,” I seethe, my teeth clenched.

“I don’t think so. If you won’t give me what I want, I’ll just have to take it.” He grabs at me again, his fingers ripping at my underwear.

“Get the fuck off me,” I bellow, driving my heel into his shin and earning a howl of rage from Damian. As soon as his grip loosens, I duck under his arm, praying I’m quick enough.

I’m not.

“You fucking cunt. You’ll pay for that one.”

It’s a funny thing—and in no way do I mean amusing—that when someone hits you, it takes a few seconds for your brain to register that it hurts like hell. In those first few seconds, your body reacts only to the knowledge that someone you trusted has inflicted the damage.

The pain is a welcome reprieve from that mental anguish.

There are two types of abusers in the world. Those who are immediately contrite, and those who get off on the power and violence. Damian is not of the first variety. The initial slap only fires him up. Rage lines his face; incensed, it would seem, that I’m still standing. Even more so that I’m not cowering in fear.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m terrified, but the fury overtakes the fear, even if I’ll live to regret it.

Sam taught me that real men never hit, and I deserve a real man. Damian has proven to be neither.

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