Page 16 of Dirty Grovel

“I just wanna dance with the little lady. What do you say, beautiful? One spin around the dance floor with me and I swear, you’ll thank me.”

I glance between the three men, desperate to avoid the kind of scene that’s going to draw attention to myself.

Since the bartender’s working and Mr. Dark & Dangerous gives me the heebie-jeebies, I decide that Frat Boy is the safest option, hairy chest notwithstanding.

“Okay,” I mumble, getting off the bar stool. “One dance.”

He holds his hand up. “Scout’s honor.”

The relief that I’ve just side-stepped a potentially uncomfortable situation disappears the moment I’m on the dance floor with Frat Boy.

Safest option, my ass.

Dude’s handsy as hell.

And apparently, too drunk to get my “keep your hands to yourself” cues.

Every time I push his hands off my hips, he puts them somewhere else. It’s like playing a weird, twisted version of Whack-a-Mole.

If only I had a Taser gun, the game would be a lot more fun.

When his hands land smack dab on my ass—one hand on each cheek—I decide enough is enough.

“Too far!” I snap, swatting at his arms.

He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hands don’t budge. “That’s a sexy-ass bikini you’ve got on.”

“Stop it!” I yell, putting more force in when I push his arms away.

Whether intentional or not, I have no idea, but his reaction is to grab my tie-ups.

As he stumbles backwards, he ends up ripping one string clean off.

The crowd cheers loudly as though he’s performed some sort of party trick.

Now, I’m standing here, under pulsing red lights, wearing nothing but a humiliated blush and a half-torn string bikini.

I need to recalibrate my “safest option” radar. It sucks.

“Yeah, I’m done here.” I twist around as more and more people peer over at me.

I’m hardly the most scantily clad girl in here, but it still feels like I’m booty-ass naked.

Maybe because I’m the only girl in here who seems tocarethat I’m wearing a bikini and nothing else.

“C’mon, babe, where are you going?” Frat Boy complains as he snatches my arm. “We’re not done dancing.”

“I say we are,” I scowl, still holding up my ruined top. “Let me go.”

He’s grinning stupidly at me but his eyes are nowhere near my face. A little more south than that, actually, and he shows no signs of shame. His clammy hand is still locked on my elbow.

“Let. Me. Go.”

I rip away from him, wincing hard at the pain his clamping fingers leave behind. Other girls collect records or posters or freaking Beanie Babies.

Me? I collect bruises.

Bruises and the bad men that make them.

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