Page 61 of Anger

Except…fuck.

It’s too late to haul ass down there now.

Not wanting to race to the school just in time to ask Brinley to rush out of class or the library to drive me to work, I glance at my phone and ignore the tension in my body at the thought of Granger.

The last person I want to see or talk to is him.

But money is money.

And right now, I need it.

Grabbing my phone off the bed, I shoot him an answer to his text.

You assume right. And can you give me a lift to work too? Brinley’s got class.

My phone lights up immediately with his response. I want to puke my guts out just looking at it.

. . .

Three male stragglers wander up the stairs to the second floor of the club, the late hour of the night giving them roughly fifteen minutes to down whatever drinks they can before closing is announced.

With sweat dripping down my body from the hours I’ve spent dancing, I watch them turn toward the bar, the tallest one holding three fingers up while speaking loudly to the bartender with what I assume is their order.

The fast beat of music keeps pounding the walls, but unlike a few weeks ago, I’m having trouble finding solace in it.

I keep closing my eyes with the hope of getting lost within the music I love so much, but they open again after a few seconds, my gaze skating left with the hope of seeing a familiar face … or staring straight ahead at the stairs leading to my cage where Granger stands watch.

After two weeks, I’m sure Damon won’t be returning to see me again.

Damn consequences.

They’ll sneak up and bite you when you act without thinking.

And now all I’m left with after kicking Damon for what he said is the disappointment that he hasn’t bothered to show up again to give me a few hours of breathing room away from Granger.

I laugh to myself while struggling to keep dancing with the weight of the fake wings on my back. It’s like choosing between the lesser of two evils. It’s unfortunate that the best choice would be the younger man who has nightmares behind his eyes and a shroud of anger that swirls around him.

Still, after listening to what Granger had to say to me on the way to the club tonight, it’s a better choice to be accused of being a paid whore than the nagging fear that my side hustle has finally turned on me ,and I’ll have no choice but to become one.

No, I tell myself.

Not that.

Never that.

This isn’t the first time in my life I’ve been terrified. And as far as the pattern of things has gone since my mom brought me into the world, it almost certainly won’t be the last.

But I got some good advice once from a teacher who was kind to me when I was the new girl at one of the countless schools I’d attended.

Back then I was a tall, skinny, leggy girl. My clothes fit poorly, and I mostly wore Kane’s hand-me-down shirts and some cutoff shorts Mom had made from a pair of jeans that ripped to the point of no return. There was nothing about me that screamed I was better than a single kid there. I was shy and didn’t talk to anyone. Just kept my head down as I walked from class to class.

But I had boobs, and apparently that offended another girl and her circle of friends.

For a few weeks, they followed me through the halls. Tripped me. Whispered around me. Laughed and basically made my life a living hell. It wasn’t until one of them dared to finally approach me and call me some stupid name that I snapped and fought the girl.

Kane taught me to fight, so I was winning our little squabble before two teachers pulled us apart and dragged us into separate classrooms.

I didn’t know the teacher, but she was pretty with short brown hair. She wore thick, black-rimmed glasses that kept slipping down the bridge of her nose. I remember that. Not her name, unfortunately, but I remember those glasses … and her advice.

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