Page 72 of Rush of Jealousy

Five men have witnessed my state of undress. And each one has had the opportunity to touch my body in some capacity. Mortification strikes down on me like an anvil. How can this be happening? Why is it happening? My heart beats loudly with the beat of every punch Graham throws at Mark’s grounded form. It is a rhythmic song of sorts. Shit. Why aren’t any of the men trying to stop him from killing him?

Maybe Mark should be dead for molesting me and nearly raping me. Maybe I should wish it. But I don’t. If Graham does end his life, then where will that send him? To prison?

I get passed to a different man. His fingers are rough with calluses. As I flicker open my eyes, I see short lighter brown hair.

Collins?

He helps me hold the blanket around my fragile body.

“I’m so cold,” I mutter. I look down at the fabric and discover that it is actually a charcoal suit coat.

Collins carries me to the opposite side of the suite, in a cheap attempt to keep my eyes off the violent display of bloodshed. I feel safe in his arms but fidget to get free. The other two men leave the room hastily.

“Ma’am. Keep still.” His voice is soothing in my state of shock. He doesn’t seem stressed at all. His impeccable manners are even intact.

“He…he…he’s going to kill him!” I shriek, tears flying violently down my cheeks. Each tear stings my raw, chafed skin. Feels like dumping hydrochloric acid in a wound and then rubbing it with sandpaper. I relish the pain, but fear the aftereffects of processing the damage.

“He knows when to stop.” It is short and to the point. Not a question, just a matter-of-fact statement.

How does he know that? Has this scene played out before?

“Can…get down…dressed? Please?” I sniffle and choke out the words. My homemade dress is destroyed, but I can still wear the scraps. Perhaps it is on the bed? Under the bed? I crane my neck to look for my outfit. It is then that I remember the splattering of blood from Mark’s open wounds and shudder.

I have no place to hide my shame; not even my logical side wants the soiled garment as a protective shield. It becomes yet another sacrifice from tonight, and a waste of an entire day I spent making it.

“No time. We’ll be leaving any minute. I’ll get you more clothes, Miss McFee. And a first aid kit for your lip and nose.” Collins examines my face briefly, his eyes darkening with an emotion I cannot quite distinguish. “Nothing appears to be broken, so that’s good. Just try to calm down. Everything will be fine.”

Fine? Fine means that everything is excellent, first-rate, splendid, exquisite. How can he think that? Everything isnotfine.

Collins’s dark eyes stare into mine, and I glance away out of reflex. I catch my reflection in a wall mirror, and I can see that my mascara has streaked down my cheeks. I look like a clown.

Collins’s jaw twitches, as he adjusts me in his arms. “Delay them,” he barks an order obviously not to me. The gruffness of his voice makes me think that he must have some sort of undetected communication device. Perhaps an earpiece? “It’s nonnegotiable.”

I am carried toward the fight scene. I jerk with each echoed smack, unbelieving that Graham could be so unyielding when delivering his wrath. I whimper and shift, trying to divert my eyes away from the scene.

“Boss? It is time.” Four words. That’s all it takes to pull Graham from the fight ring. He mutters what I assume are profanities at Mark’s limp form. Graham reaches into his tailored pants and glances at the screen of his phone. He then spits at Mark’s crumpled body beneath him—disgust radiating from his pores.

Moving over to the minibar, he dampens a napkin and wipes the blood stains from his knuckles, bending his fingers to check for damage.

“Parker cleaning up?”

Collins shifts me in his arms as he looks at his Rolex. “Done, sir. We have approximately three minutes.”

They speak in code that I do not understand. Graham blatantly disregards me. Not a glance, not a touch, and definitely not a word. It’s as if I am an appendage of Collins.

“Get her out of here and get me backup.”

Her. It hurts to be referred to as just a pronoun. I feel small and insignificant. A nobody. He is furious and hateful, a combination that I hope to never see again. Especially directed at me. I feel the scold take effect on my insides. I want to get swallowed up in the suit coat and suffocate inside the designer wool fabric. I cling to Collins like a lifeline, using his body to hold me together before I completely have a meltdown.

“Get Parker’s ass up here now. I want it spotless! And Nic better sure as hell have the footage destroyed so our hands are clean,” he snarls. “Handle any witnesses. We cannot afford to take a wrong step right now.”

“Yes, sir.”

In a blur of movements, I am transferred from the room, down a hallway, and then into a service stairwell. It is there that I break down from the force of the events finally being processed in my fragile head. The image of Graham’s disgust toward me shifts to the primary focus of my mental assault on my own shameful regard of myself. Who could blame him? If just a man grabbing me at a bar could cause him to react violently, what did I expect him to do with a man lying beside me naked and about to rape me? A man I barely know. A man I have no intention of having a relationship with, but yet followed him willingly to a hotel room.

How stupid can I be?

Lock me up and throw away the key. I am certifiable.

---