Page 32 of Degrading Her

“Don’t stare so hard,” I said.

“Get her a cocktail. One of those A Short Trips to Hell,” he said to the bartender.

“Fiona,” my sister warned, pulling my arm. “She’s drunk,” she said to Tight Shirt, forcing a laugh. “Don’t mind us.”

“You can shove the cocktail up your ass,” I shouted at Tight Shirt.

“What the hell are you doing?” Maisie hissed into my ear.

Tight Shirt cracked his neck, then stepped closer.Maisie’s grip tightened on me. “Flashing your pussy like you need some dick in your life, and you’re tellingme‘no’?” He handed me the drink off of the bar. “Now thank me.”

I laughed. “No. Thank. You,” I said.

“Bitch—”

Tight Shirt reached for me but was yanked back by his shoulders, tripping over his feet. Sawyer stepped forward, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled back. One of the top buttons of his shirt undone, showing off his chest hair. No tie.

How did he look so good in formal wear,andpartly undone like this? And why was he here?

My heart gathered in my throat.

“Sawyer,” I said.

“She doesn’t want the drink,” Sawyer said. “Find yourself another woman.”

“What did you tell me to do?” Tight Shirt asked, straightening his chest, the fabric threatening to rip.

A sudden fear swarmed in my stomach. Sawyer was muscular, but this guy was like a damn boulder.

“It’s fine,” I said, grabbing Sawyer’s arm. Nausea swept through me. I held my stomach. Maybe Maisie was right. Was I pushing it too far? How much had I had to drink? “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“That’s right,” Tight Shirt said, clenching his fists. “The bitch isn’t even wearing a thong. What kind of attention did she think she’d get?”

Sawyer’s knuckles whitened, the blood leaving his straining fingers. “Is that right?”

Tight Shirt narrowed his eyes. “Your whore?—”

Sawyer grabbed the man’s shoulders and kneed him so hard in the chest, everyone in the vicinity gasped and gawked. The music kept playing but Tight Shirt held his stomach, then reached for Sawyer’s leg. Sawyer railedpunches into the man’s skull, straddling him, his knuckles crashing down. Someone tried to pull Sawyer back, but another man stopped him. I had this vague recollection that I recognized the man from the anniversary party. Was that one of Sawyer’s bodyguards dressed in regular clothes?

What were they doing here?

Sawyer threw a final punch, the man’s eyes sufficiently puffed and bloody. My face throbbed. The room sloped around me. A headache hammered my skull.

Had Sawyer just hurt that man for me?

Sawyer stood up. “Get out,” he said.

A few men behind Sawyer pulled Tight Shirt to his feet, escorting him through the crowd. A man in a black suit wearing an earpiece nodded to Sawyer, then left. Did Sawyer know the owner of the nightclub? Was that why no one was stopping him?

Sawyer wiped his bloody hands on a cloth, then stowed it in his pocket. His eyes cast on me, holding me still.

He had hurt that man. Was he trying to protect me?

Whywas he protecting me?

Was it because he liked me?

Why was I even considering that? It didn’t matterwhyhe had done it. A single punch was one thing, but Sawyer had hurt that man until he couldn’t see.

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