Page 6 of Fearless

I glare at him as I yank my wrist free, and fight the urge to knee him in the groin for good measure. But he’s in enough pain already, so I turn and head away as fast as my slippered feet can take me.

It pisses me off though. I’m used to having to go around in groups for safety—that’s what I had to do every time I snuck out of the house and went clubbing in South Africa. There, if you don’t have a posse, you’re bound to end up roofied and date raped…and that’s if you’re lucky. More often than not, you’d wake up to discover you’d been sold to the highest bidder via some sex trafficking ring in Nigeria.

Ah, the good old days.

I thought it would be different in Edinburgh. I mean, the place is full of tourists and the police know it—they’re everywhere. Guess there’s no place left in the world where a girl can go out and dance by herself anymore.

You had your fun, Meisie, but you knew this plan of yours was doomed to fail. Time to leave.

I glance behind me to make sure Horny Druggie hasn’t decided to go a second round.

And walk into a wall.

I would have fallen flat on my ass if a pair of strong hands hadn’t grabbed me by the waist and hauled me back up again.

My eyes fix on a pair of delicious pecs skimmed by an expensive-looking dress shirt. My gaze travels up, scanning a V of darkly-tanned skin, a strong, angular jaw dusted with dark stubble, past a mouth curved into a rueful smile, to—finally—a pair of dark green eyes pinning me where I stand.

“That arsewipe giving you trouble?” the man asks in a rumble of a voice.

“Who, him?” I stab a thumb over my shoulder in the possible direction of Horny Druggie without taking my eyes off the imposing mountain of a man I’m standing in front of. “Nah.”

He cocks his head at me, and I hastily drop my gaze. Stupid accent. He probably thinks I sound like a chump.

Strong fingers grasp my chin, levering my head up, forcing me to look at him again. “Where you from?” comes the inevitable question.

“Joburg,” I say through a sigh. “South Africa?”

“Aye, I’ve been there,” he says, his eyes narrowing a little. “Far from home, little girl.”

Little…? I scowl up at him as I tug my chin out of his grip.

Ugh. Just because I wasn’t born a giant like everyone else in this godforsaken place, doesn’t mean everyone can go around being all condescending and shit.

I whip my ponytail over my shoulder, crossing my arms over my chest and sticking up my nose at him. “I was born here,doos. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re in my way.”

He quirks a dark eyebrow. But as if my rudeness turned some kind of a switch, he glances away a second before he steps aside to let me pass. I watch him leave and then frown as he moves through the crowd.

They part for him like a school of sardines letting a shark through.

Guess I should go see where the hell my actual date has gone to. I thought he wouldn’t cut it, but after meeting Mr. Tall, Dark, and Arrogant, my Justin’s starting to look like a real catch.

I met him on Bumble a few weeks back after I decided to take Trish’s advice and get over my PTSD the good ole’ new age way. I had no idea I’d actually meet someone who sounded like he had half a brain in his head and wasn’t solely interested in sticking it in me.

Justin works at the bar here Fridays and Saturdays, and he’s been asking me for weeks to drop in for a drink on the house. I had no intention of following through until Mom announced she had an important conference call tonight and canceled our dinner plans.

Since I’m all dressed up and with literally nowhere to go, I might as well see if this Justin guy is as charming in real life as he is on his profile, and even get over my shit.

I don’t hold out much hope. I’ve learned the hard way that guys are as two-faced as a bag of moldy coins.

Making my way to the bar, I bob my head in time with the pounding music.

I get about three yards from the bar before someone grabs my bare arm and digs cat-like nails into my flesh.

“Hey!” I yelp, spinning to face the girl standing behind me.

Big eyes, dark how her pupils crowd out her irises, blink languidly at me. “Don’t cut, bitch.”

I glance around. It takes me a second to realize that the mass of bodies pressing against the bar is an actual queue and not just a bunch of people to whom the idea of personal space is something they’re yet to grasp.

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