Page 7 of The Worst Man

Now I squinted up at him, one eye winking closed as I tried to bring him into focus. “I grew up with four brothers,” I explained, making sure to enunciate each word very carefully. I reasoned that if I could still speak in full and complete sentences, I wasn’t that drunk. Then again, I was telling him something I’d never told anyone before in my life, and no matter how loudly the sirens were blaring in my head, I kept on speaking. So maybe I was really fucking drunk after all. “In high school they threw epic parties whenever our parents were out of town. One time a guy on their water polo team got me so wasted that I fell into the pool. After that, they decided it would be a good idea to teach me how to hold my liquor.” I lifted my shoulder as if to convey that it was no big deal. In truth, it had been a very big deal. Not only had I lost my virginity that night, but I’d nearly drowned too.

Hank straightened and pressed his palm flat against the wall behind me. “What did you say?” he whispered darkly as his body leaned toward mine.

“My brothers—”

“No, about the other guy. The one who got you drunk.”

I stared up at him quizzically, my alcohol-soaked brain having a hard time keeping up with the sudden shift in conversation. Also, why was he scowling at me again? I lifted my hand and patted his cheek, a ghost of a five o’clock shadow abrading my skin. “I liked you better when you were smiling.” I scrubbed my palm back and forth over his surprisingly soft whiskers.

“And I liked it better when you weren’t telling me that some asshole took advantage of you when you were just a kid.”

I pushed my back up against the wall to brace myself and lifted my chin haughtily. “I wasn’t a kid. I was sixteen.”

Hank swallowed and his eyes flashed with anger. He reached out and gently pushed a lock of hair that had come loose from the bun on top of my head behind my ear. I shivered when his finger traced a light path from my ear down my neck. “Did he … was he … ?”

I might have been drunk, but I didn’t have to be sober to understand what he was asking. The question was written all over his face and in the harsh, implacable lines of his shoulders. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

Tag Everholt hadn’t raped me. I’d had a crush on him for months, and while I hadn’t wanted to have sex for the first time in our pool house on top of a broken lounger, I hadn’t said no either. Losing my virginity hadn’t been the grand, romantic escapade my teenage brain had longed for, but rather a quick, painful introduction to disappointment and disillusionment. It had been stupid; not a tragedy.

“You’re telling me that asshole didn’t get you drunk, try to fuck you, and then watch you nearly drown?”

My gaze darted guiltily away, but Hank’s hand thumb and forefinger quickly found my chin and he gently spun my face back around to his.

After several seconds locked against one another in a silent battle, I blew out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Okay, it was kind of like that,” I admitted, shame washing over me.

I left out the part that he hadn’t just tried—he’d succeeded. And though Tag had told me I was beautiful and that he’d been in awe of me for ages but had never said anything because I was too young, he never called afterward. When our paths crossed a month later, he pretended like I didn’t exist. In hindsight, it was probably for the best that he’d blown me off so spectacularly, otherwise, I might have pined for him a lot longer than I actually did. Still, it had hurt—both the sex and his rejection—and it had left a lasting, indelible impression on me.

With blinding clarity that can only come from having practically drank your weight in alcohol, I realized Tag’s treatment of me all those years ago was the real reason I was so distrustful of men. Why, except for Samuel, I always expected to be let down by them.

And then my eyes went wide with further comprehension. I’d used Hank as the proxy for all my hate and anger. Rich, good looking, and confident in the extreme, on paper he was so much like my brothers’ friend. Except, when Hank wasn’t playing the role of a dissolute rich boy, he was charming and insightful. And, it as much as it pained me to admit it, he was quite good at his job too. His students absolutely adored him. I knew this because his class was right before mine, and I’d often hear them talking animatedly about his lectures as they shuffled out of the room, and I shuffled in.

“Miranda …” he whispered, the cinnamon-scent from the shot of Fireball we’d tossed back a few minutes earlier wafting over my lips. I swore I could taste it. Taste him. “Is that why you hate men?”

I opened my mouth to reject the claim, but then closed it just as quickly. Mutely, I nodded and felt my eyes brimming with sudden tears.

All at once, Hank banded his arms around me and pulled me in flush against him. His large hand cupped the back of my head as I sobbed into his strong, comforting embrace. “What am I going to do with you?”

I shook my head against a wall of firm muscle. Frankly, I didn’t have an answer to that question. In the span of a few minutes, my entire world view had been upended. It turned out that Hank Talbot had been right about me from the very start. I did blame rich, entitled white men for the world’s most pressing problems—and all because a douchebag who should have known better had gotten me wasted and then stolen my virginity from me.

Adding insult to injury, the douche canoe in question was now a U.S. congressman with a nasty habit of voting down any bill that gave women equal footing in the workplace. Given my history with him, it was no wonder I’d become such a staunch advocate for gender equality. No one had stood up and protected me back when I needed them to, so I’d worked diligently to carve out a career where I could help prepare the next generation of young women to fend for themselves.

I sniffled and leaned away from the cradle of Hank’s embrace. “Thank you,” I said, looking up at him. “I think I needed that.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern etched his proud, handsome features.

“I’m fine.” I swiped the pads of my fingers under my eyes to erase the mascara I was certain had turned me into a doppelgänger of a deranged raccoon. “Or rather, I will be.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

I pushed out of his arms and pulled a few deep, calming breaths into my lungs. I threw my shoulders back with feigned courage. Inside, however, I was quaking with vulnerability—something I absolutely abhorred. I’d just confessed my deepest, darkest shame to a man who I’d loathed for years, and I was wrecked.

I needed to get back on equal footing with him, but more than that, I needed a few more moments of oblivion. “You know what you can do for me?” I asked, looking up at him with what I hoped was an air of flirty confidence. “You can get me another shot.”

It wasn’t lost on me that I’d uttered those same words to Tag and they’d dramatically altered the fabric of my life. I just hoped I’d learned my lesson in the years in between.

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