Page 14 of Out of the Dark

He smiles, but there's something in his gaze that makes mewant to run. "I'm glad to hear that. But I also have to be very selective about who gets a raise, so maybe we could sweeten the deal here."

He steps closer and reaches out to graze my arm, and I flinch away instinctively. But instead of backing off, he grips my wrist and pushes me against the wall. His face is inches from mine, his breath hot on my skin, and dread weighs down on me.

"Come on, Claire," he coaxes. "I can make things really good for you here."

I'm frozen with terror, my heart pounding so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear his words. I manage to shake my head in a small, desperate movement. "No, please, I just want to do my job."

He scoffs. "Don't play hard to get, sweetheart. I know you're new to the city, but this is how things work around here."

Tears well up in my eyes as I shake my head again and struggle to find my voice. "Please, let me go."

But he doesn't listen. He reaches up with his other hand to touch my face, and I react before I can think. I shove him as hard as I can and he stumbles back, his eyes wide with shock. I may be small and meek and new to this life, but I’m not about to let this creep take advantage of me.

I reach for the door and Jackson lunges for my arm. I’m fighting against him with everything I have now, lashing out with my limbs and landing a good kick to his knee.

"You little fucking —" his words get cut off when the door to the office bursts open, and one of the cooks who I don’t interact much with—Andre—steps in.

"Jackson, the oven's not working again," he says, looking between me and our boss. "Can you take a look at it?"

Jackson's grip on my arm loosens, and he steps back. He forces out a laugh. "Yeah. Just playing around with Claire here," he says, clapping Andre on the shoulder as he walks out. "You know how new girls can be, so serious all the time."

Andre’s concern-filled eyes meet mine. "Are you okay?"

I nod, even though I'm anything but okay. I’m frozen in place, attempting to come to terms with what just happened. Once I shake myself out of my stupor, I quickly gather my things, mumble an excuse about not feeling well, and dart out the back door. Andre watches me go, but he doesn't try to stop me.

The drive back to Mark's is a blur. My hands are shaking against the steering wheel, and I can feel the bruises forming on my arm where Jackson grabbed me. The skin is already tender, serving as a reminder of just how bad that could have been. I choke back sobs as I drive, and when I pull into the parking garage, I sit there for a few minutes and give myself a moment to think while waiting for the tears to stop.

In this moment, I feel more like an outcast in this life than ever before. People are so cruel, so selfish, and I’ve only managed to escape these violent interactions due to someone else interfering—first Mark, now Andre, even though his was an unintentional intervention. How am I ever supposed to survive on my own when I can’t even manage to go a month without a man trying to hurt me? Is this just how the world is for women?

I pull the key from the ignition and make my way up to Mark's apartment. I stand outside the door and attempt to compose myself. I don't want him to see me like this, to know how weak and vulnerable I am after he’s already saved me once.

Luckily for me, I have abundant experience in pretendingto be okay when I’m hurting on the inside. The life I left behind gave me plenty of practice in that.So many people have it worse than you, my father used to say.Be grateful for what you have and stop complaining. It was the go-to response when any of us children were upset by something, as if we shouldn’t be allowed to feel emotion because our problems were insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But when I pointed out that the sentiment was the same as saying we shouldn’t be happy because so many others have it better, I was still chastised for being ungrateful.

His advice never stuck with me in a way that mattered, but it did give me plenty of practice in hiding my emotions, of tamping down any feelings that threatened to overflow. I suppose now is as good of a time as any to put that practice back into place.

I take a deep breath, school my expression, and make my way inside.

CHAPTER TEN

MARK

The sound of the door opening pulls my attention from the football game on TV. That’s weird; Claire hasn’t been gone for very long. I was expecting her to be working for at least another couple hours. But when I catch sight of her as she closes the door behind her, my stomach drops. Her face is pink—and not in the adorable way it is when she blushes—and her eyes are puffy. She’s been crying.

I stand but keep my voice gentle when I ask, "Claire, what happened?"

She jumps, not realizing I was on the couch. "Nothing, I'm fine," she says, but her voice wavers.

"You'renotfine." I step closer, noting the way she keeps running one hand along her arm. "Are you hurt?"

Her gaze stays fixed on the ground, the wall, anywhere but me. "It’s not a big deal."

"Show me." It’s almost impossible to keep the anger out ofmy voice, but I only manage to do so for her sake. I don’t want to scare her.

She lifts her sleeve, already giving excuses in a meek voice. "There’s probably not even anything there. It’s just a little sore."

But sure enough, there are faint marks—not fully formed bruises yet, but they will be—in the shape of fingerprints.

Fingerprints.

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