Worth the Risk(16)

The cool night air is welcome as it washes over me after the stuffy heat of the bar. I take a few steps into the darkened alley and look for Grayson, but I don’t see anyone.

Hugging my arms around myself, I head toward the edge of the building. There’s nothing there but a few dumpsters against a chain link fence.

It’s when I turn to head back into the bar that I startle.

“Hey, there.” The man’s hair is disheveled, his belt buckle shines off what little light is back here, and his eyes are laced with a suggestion that makes my skin crawl.

My hands grab the strap of my purse where it rests against my chest, but I stare him squarely in the eyes and nod a greeting I’d rather not give.

He takes a stumbling step toward me. “You’re a sweet little thang, you know that? I bet you’d feel real good.”

My first thought is that his grammar sucks. My second is, why in the hell am I focusing on his grammar when I’m alone in an alley with a drunk man?

Because I’m nervous.

I shouldn’t be. The door to the bar is right there, and there is probably at least one other person somewhere close. Yet, even knowing that, fear slowly coats my skin.

When I take a step to my right to put more distance between us, he mirrors the movement and emits a soft chuckle.

Get a grip, Sid. You’re fine.

“You’re looking mighty sexy. Love them heels with that skirt.” A deep, guttural groan suggests what he’s thinking about wanting to do to me.

He takes a step toward me.

I take one back.

My pulse thunders in my ears when it shouldn’t. I’ve dealt with plenty of assholes like this in San Francisco. Drunk guys who’ve had a few too many beers and let their buzz exacerbate their machismo. Only, we aren’t in San Francisco where people are constantly milling around. We’re in Sunnyville in the back alleyway of a bar where the music is so loud inside that even if I scream, I don’t think anyone would be able to hear me.

Another step.

Another one in retreat.

“My friend just ran to his car. He’ll be right back.” The lie comes out effortlessly, but the lopsided smile he gives me and the way his eyes run up and down every inch of my body tells me he doesn’t believe a word of it.

“C’mon, sweetheart, just a little dance in the moonlight with me won’t do you any harm.”

“No thanks. I have other plans,” I say. The only way out of here is to pass him, but I won’t be able to do that without him grabbing me.

My pulse pounds in my ears.

With my head up, I keep my eyes on his, hoping my direct eye contact might deter him from escalating this situation.

My palms are sweaty.

“Can you please step out of my way?”

My throat is dry.

“Now why would I shy away from a pretty little thang like you?” He slurs a few words, and his gait is unsteady as he sways side to side.

I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or worried that he’s drunk. It’s when I try to skirt past him—just when I think I’m free and clear—that he lunges and has a hold of my bicep.

A laugh falls from his mouth at the same time a shriek escapes mine.

“I don’t mean no harm . . . just want a little kiss.” He fumbles over the words as the stench of alcohol on his breath assaults me.

I yank my arm away, but he holds tight. “Get off me.” I grit out between clenched teeth.

He only pulls me closer. The undertone of cologne. The scrape of his denim against my bare legs. The sting of his fingernails digging into my skin.

Panic. Fear. Anger. All three riot around inside me.

“I just wanna dance. Let’s dance.” He tries to sway to some kind of rhythm as he hums.

My stomach roils, and I freeze when every part of me screams to fight him. Kick him in the nuts. Gouge his eyes out.

Seconds pass. My synapses fire.

“Get away from me!” I shout and shove him off me as hard as I can at the same time I hear, “Get your hands off her.”

Grayson?

Grayson.

It’s a split second between the man letting go of my arm and Grayson pinning him to the wall, using his forearm to crush the guy’s windpipe.

“Sorry, man, I was just trying to have a little fun,” the drunk guy slurs.

“Yeah, and she didn’t want any.” Grayson fists his hand in the guy’s shirt and yanks him off the wall.

“I didn’t—I wasn’t . . .” The guy stumbles, almost falling before he rights himself. “God, I’m fucking drunk.”

“Get the hell out of here, before I call the cops so they can help you sober up.” Grayson shoves the man toward the other side of the alleyway. The man looks back, almost as if he’s been shocked sober and isn’t sure what’s going on. “Keep walking.”

I stare at Grayson’s back, my adrenaline fading. My panic shifting to shame. My fear morphing into embarrassment that I couldn’t handle myself.

I was handling myself.

I think.

Then why do my knees feel like rubber and my eyes burn with tears?

Right when I feel like I’m going to give in to my moment of weakness, Grayson turns around and faces me.

For one short moment, I allow myself to feel relief, to feel safe. Then the shock of what just happened—of Grayson being the one to render help—has me straightening my spine.