Chapter 29

MELODY

Shaking,I enter the venue and go straight to the restroom, feverishly running my hand over my hair, lips, and skirt.

The spots?

I can easily see them as I tilt my gaze down.

I blotted them as much as I could with the sleeve of my blazer while he pulled away in his car, but I couldn't erase them.

The outlines are still there, although the stains are no longer visible. But then I created another problem as the black wool and his semen didn't mix well.

Now I'm afraid my sleeve is stained too.

Luckily, the people in the room pay no attention to me. How long has it been?I have no idea.

We must've spent at least a half an hour outside.

I'm sure Emile has searched for me.

Oh… My phone.

Ipullto an abrupt stop andfreeze, not far from the door to the restroom, realizing my phone was in my clutch, and my bag sat with my drink on top of his car.

He left.

He fucking left.

Has he not seen them?

Would I be surprised?

The ending wasn't that ceremonious.

The truth is, my head is spinning. So many things have happened these past minutes. So many walls have been torn down, andsomany absolute truths have been turned to dust.

Did I like what he did to me?

Absolutely loved it, and that scared me the most. I would have never thought I'd be enthralled by it.

The side of him he'd shown me left me breathless, unable to think or meander.

Will this work?

I'm not so sure, but I'm willing to give it a try.

When he was done, I pushed to my feet and tugged at my dress with no help from him. The only thing he did for me was handing me my blazer.

He gave me a wink before I put my jacket on and spun around to head this way.

He's gone.

His car rumbled away while I slid the metal door open and entered the building.

But I still need to go back there and check.

Maybe they fell from his car.

Maybehe's seen them and collected them. My phone and my bag.

Forget about my drink. That was my cover-up.

I'm so anxious about my bag that I can't think of anything else. Weaving through groups of people like a mad woman, I reach the back of the building and the side door.

I push it open and rush to the spot where he was parked.

Nothing.

I find nothing.

I. Am. Fucked.

My phone and credit cards were in there. My driver"s license.

Crushed, I turn around and enter the venue when an announcement is broadcasted over the speakers.

Someone has found my things, and I can collect them in the front.

I am happy. And I'm angry… Now I have to waltz through the middle of the crowd with eyes on me, possible semen in my hair, my lipstick gone, my dress stained, and my black sleeve marked.

I walk that way, trying not to think about it, and reach the front door, where anicelady smiles in my direction.

Embarrassed, I gesture at her, holding her eyes while hoping she doesn't noticethe state I'm in.

"Melody Hill?" she says, holding my things.

"Yeah, that's me. Who found them?" I ask, perhaps unnecessarily curious about this whole ordeal.

I should grab my things, head to the back, find a restroom, and try to fix this mess.

But still, a little voice inside my head would like to know if he had stepped inside the venue and left my things with this woman.

"A man," she says, giving me my clutch.

I take it and look inside.

Everything is in there.

"Can you describe him?"

I'm so convinced it was him that I only pay attention when she describes an old woman.

I zip my gaze up.

"A woman?"

"Yes. Someone handedheryour things asshehappened to walk in. I don't know who that other person was. She didn't question them. She was happy she could help."

Her smile relays to me this is all she has for me.

"Thank you."

Her eyes are about to slide from my face and move down when I hug my blazer closer, flick my hair over my shoulder,openmy mouth, and speak.

"Is there a restroom nearby?"

She spins around and points to a door.

"There is one over there."

Good.

I pivot as she turns to me, and before long, she can only see my back. But even so, I'm concerned I might have stains on the back of my dress and more sperm in my hair.

Moments later, I walk into a small corridor and check the doors to several rooms. I find the restroom, and luckily, no one else is inside.

Hurriedly, I place my bag on the edge of the sink and asses the disaster. The knots in my hair, the spillage on my left boob, the creases on my dress, the smudges under my eyes from shedding tears.

And then I notice the rush of blood in my cheeks, the bright light in my eyes, the crazy red swirling in waves down my back. I've never looked more wild. Never been more alive and sexually stirred up.

I've always been hostage to neutral colors—beige, brown, light gray. Everything of significance happened beneath a layer of monotony, but now change is in full bloom, expressing the passion, ardor, and spirit of adventure awakened in me by this man.

I quickly snap out of my head, open the faucet, tear a paper towel from a roll, soak it in warm water, squeeze out the excess moisture, and start cleaning my dress and blazer.

I'm moving quickly, aware that someone might walk in at any moment.

Once I'm done with my clothes, I ball up the paper towel, throw it in a trash container, slide my hands under the running water, and move my fingers through my tangled hair.

Oh.

What have I done?

It takes me a few good moments to remove his semen from my hair, and even so, I still smell like sex, smoke, and male cologne.

I'm doomed.

Despite how quickly I work, I'm still not done when the door opens and a woman walks in.

She looks at me, and maybe it's me, but Ihave a feelingshe knows exactly why I'm here.

"Excuse me," she says, pointing to the sink. "Are you finished?" she asks.

"Oh, yes. Yes, I am."

I'm not. But I'm almost done. My hair, dress, and blazer are all damp.

It's a miracle my tights have no runs or holes.

I've been so preoccupied with fixing my outfit that I had no time to removethe smudges from under my eyes.

I step to the side, anxiously tugging at my hair.

There are no signs a man has stained my luscious tresses, but the woman still shoots a suspicious side-eyed glance while washing her hands.

She says nothing when I lock her gaze.

Without a word, she turns off the water and dries her hands before spinning away and exiting the restroom.

A sigh of relief shakes its way out of my chest.

Much calmer, I look in the mirror, run my fingers below my eyes, and remove the smudged mascara.

I dip my hand inside my purse and pull out my lipstick, concealer, and mascara.

Five minutes later, I'm content with the results.

I still look like it has rained on me, but at least I washed him off.

By the time I exit the restroom the rooms are half empty, which makes the situation more bearable as it's easier to walk through and orient myself.

I wouldn't be surprised if Emile had left. It's been a while since I abandoned the venue to walk in the back.

He must've looked for me, perhaps even called me.

With that thought, I shove my hand into my bag and fish out my cell phone. My phone is dead.

The battery must've died.

All right.

Let's look around.

I grab another drink from a tray and move around the room like nothing happened.

No sign of Emile.

I'm about to ask the woman at the front desk to call a cab for me when a frantic Emile walks into the venue, a vein pulsing on his brow.

"Hey. Where were you?"hesays in a breath as ifhe'sjust been informed I spent some time with a man in the back alley.

It's a striking change of dynamic. In the span of an hour, he went from the laid-back guy to some freakishly obsessed man.

We are not that close, so his budding territoriality is annoying. I was number three or four on his list––I'd like to remind him––but I let it slide.

I didn't think a change of image would make a man like him become obsessed with me.

He grips my elbow––and again, we're notthat close––yet luckily, he adjusts his voice.

"I was worried about you, cherie. And then I heard the announcement and thought something bad had happened to you. Were you out of the building?"heasks, the woman from the front desk notfar from us.

I pivot to a food table and set my drink down, struggling to come up with an explanation.

"I was," I say, turning to him. "I had a smoke."

"I thought you quit," he says, and I bite my lip.

That's what small talk does to you.

"I had a relapse."

He searches my eyes.

"Something bothered you tonight?"

Guilt sidles up to me as he seems genuinely worried about my well–being, which is more than I can say about Jax, who left without making sure I had all my belongings and then conveniently tasked some woman to bring them back. What if that woman changed her mind? What if I'd been gone by then? How could he trust the process?

"I'm sorry. Our meeting took longer than I thought,"hesays, and now I realize it had to do with work."I was looking for you. We want to go to a French restaurant nearby. I thought you'd be interested in joining us?"

"We?"

"A group of friends.Would you be interested?" he asks, the man with flushed cheeks andanger in his eyes completelygone.

I think about itfor a second, recollecting what Jax told me about canceling my evening with this man.

He must've talked about me spending the night with Emile.As in sleeping with him.

This is not that.

I wouldn't have done it anyway.

It was never my intention.

"Sure. We can do that."

His face lights up.

"Perfect. Let me tell the other people," he says before leaving me alone again.

This time, I onlyspenda few secondsby myself, enough for him to go into the other room, talk to the group, and return.

I could count about ten people. Some are couples. Some are singles. And then there"s the woman I met in the restroom, a slender brunette with straight hair and big lips.

She looks at me circumspectly, dull resentment coming from her eyes in waves.

Is it me, or does she consider me her competition?

I furtively study her demeanor while people chat about the place we're going to.

She doesn't seem to have a thing for him.

Yeah, and I don't look like I've spent some time with another man.

Appearances are deceptive.

Maybe she's passing judgment on me and thinks it's not nice to do naughty things as long as I'm here with someone else.

What makes her think it wasn't Emile?

I move my gaze to the man in question.

He seemscompletelyremoved from the idea of him and me. I doubt it would ever cross his mind to meet me in a back alley.

He's the type who likes to undress you with his teeth, telling you sweet nothings while holding his cards close to his vest.

As harmless as he looks, Emile––like every other man I've met––can inflict pain.

So, I don't know about that woman and him. Maybe she's interested, and he is not.Maybehe had fooled her into believing he might spend some time with her.

Oh… There.

I catch her looking in his direction, and it's more than a casual stare. There is some intensity to her gaze, reserved for him only.

He doesn't seem to be aware, although considering Emile is playing the field a little, I wouldn't be so sure.

If that's the case, and I am her competition, the fact that she knows why I spent some time in the bathroom must not sit well with her.

If she likes Emile and wants him for herself, that little piece of knowledge might not make me her friend.

I'm not concerned with her telling him. I'm more concerned with her making a scene.

Sadly, this is not the time or place to sort these things out. I can't just walk toherand tellhershecan havehim.

He also has a say in that, although he seems fixated on me right now.

His arm is draped over my shoulders, a gesture meant to signal how close we are when, in fact, we aren't.

Eventually, Imanagetomove away and walk in front of him while the rest of the groupfollowsus.