Page 82 of Never Date A Player
Huffing out a pained sigh, I rearrange the bills in my caddy, annoyed with myself.
The bartender glances up. “Someone here for you.” He turns and unloads a rack of clean glasses from the dishwasher.
I stuff the cash in my tray and turn to help the customer. My shoulders stiffen.
Drake’s gaze flickers around the room, as if to confirm it’s deserted.
Why haven’t I followed up on the harassment complaint, or gone to the police?
Right—because there’s been a lot going on lately. Cali almost died, I found out I had a father, and I lost my boyfriend, all in the last week. Life has been utter chaos.
I’m not sure how to read Drake’s expression; calculating, smug—not good, that’s all I know. I hate working with Amber, but I almost wish she were here tonight.
I peer across the room, but Maryanne’s not at her station either. Is she on break? Dammit.
I take a deep breath. I don’t need someone to rescue me. I can deal with this. I’ve proven my strength during training and by not reaching out to Lewis when every cell in my body insists on it. It’s late, but there are people and security guards about. As long as I stay within view, I should be safe.
“Genevieve. Alone at last.” Drake’s gaze falls to my shorts. He’s staring as if reliving the time he touched me where no man is allowed to touch a woman without permission. His mouth pulls into a half-grin.
I might hurl, or strike him. “What do you want?”
He tsks. “Is that any way to address your boss?”
He’s not my boss. He knows this. Drake’s position is well above mine. Maryanne supervises me. “Leave me alone, Drake.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t be difficult. I spoke to the bartender.” What’s he talking about? The bartender was with me when Drake walked up. “It’s a slow night. I only need you upstairs for twenty, maybe thirty minutes. This won’t take long.”
Despite the positive affirmations I tell myself about my strength and my ability to handle personal battles, a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. “No.”
Drake inches forward, crowding me until his chest nearly bumps mine. “I’m in control here,” he growls, and grabs my upper arm, squeezing.
I wince and glance around. The bartender has disappeared. He was here a minute ago. Where the hell did he go?
Drake’s grip feels like a metal clamp, his fingers overlapping my limb. Squirming only increases the pain. He’s going to pop a major artery if he doesn’t loosen his hold. It doesn’t help that my arms are thin—always the weakest part of my body, no matter how much muscle I build.
“You’re coming.” He tugs me to the rear exit.
I glimpse the bartender returning, smiling at a customer at the far end of the counter. He’s not looking my way. I call to him, “Crai—” but my voice cuts off on a whimper.
Hot breath burns my ear. “Do it—” Drake shakes me. “He’s in my pocket. They all are.” My fingers go numb and I close my eyes against the pain. I’m convinced he’s ripped something important. Drake sighs through his nose. “I only want to talk to you. I won’t take you upstairs, deal? You know I can’t do anything fun down here.”
Can’t he? I don’t trust him. What is it they say—never negotiate with terrorists? Does the same rule apply to abusive assholes?
Yes. I drop my tray and pull at his fingers. He tightens his hold on my arm and white dots burst behind my eyes as he jerks me past the exit.
We’re in an interior hallway used by employees, and Drake makes the mistake of loosening his fingers long enough for me to gather my senses. “Let go!” I yell.
A passing busboy’s gaze darts to me, then Drake. He glances quickly away and exits through a swinging door.
What? I understand why management would support Drake and tuck the harassment claim under the rug. Drake is management. But the workers I rub shoulders with—what the hell? Suddenly, allowing Drake to drag me to a less crowded area, potential broken arm or not, seems like a very bad idea.
He lets go of my arm, crowding me against the wall. There’s no feeling in my fingers, not even a rush of heat to show he released me. His eyes are dark, his pupils large. “I love it when you fight. Please, don’t stop. It makes it so much better.”
Fuck! I dart to the side and he grabs me around the waist so tight I can barely breathe.
Just like in elementary school when the bully girl picked on me for being quiet, I drop to the floor and go limp. This reaction is all lower brain, and totally ineffectual. The bully would pick me up and toss me around the playground like a rag doll. It never worked then.
It doesn’t work now.
