Maybe it’s stress, possibly fear, or the pressure of protecting my sister.
The blade is bigger than the one he usually hurts me with, and it doesn’t hide inside a little red handle.
A pitiful cry echoes in the room as Dollie squeezes my hand harder.
I take her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles before telling her, “I won’t let him hurt you. You’re my little sister. I’ll protect you always, I promise.”
CHAPTER 32
Dollie—present day
For a place called The Funhouse, this place seems relatively mild compared to what I was expecting. Which is a good thing, because Annabelle vacated my side the second some guy started giving her attention.
I gave her the go-ahead because I’d have felt bad saying,Please stay.This many people are a lot for me.
It’s truly pointless for us to both have a bad night. Especially when it’s her first day off work, and she’s been doing cupcake run after cupcake run and doing my hair.
It’s curled and pink now to match my dress. I needed something to make me feel brand new. Annabelle told me new hair does that, and we decided to change up the style I’ve rocked since kindergarten.
I thought I’d hate it, but surprisingly, I don’t.
What I hate is sitting in this booth with strangers while people at the next table question if I’m “that girl whose brother murdered her parents because—” not repeating that, not even in my head.
The women at my table, though, have remained respectful, but it’s getting a little tedious listening to each one engage in conversation about the hot members of staff.
My mind drifts to one in particular.
As I suspected, I didn’t see Lucky earlier when we dropped off the cupcakes, and our busy schedules have meant we haven’t spoken much since.
He doesn’t know I’m here, and I don’t know what he looks like.
Is he that guy? The one wiping down the next table, whom all the women at this one fawn over.
Nope, he does not look twenty-eight.
Left out of the conversation because these women have already had three of their attempts thwarted by me and my awkwardness, I leave the table.
I feel I’m good at pretending to be like everyone else when fewer people are around, but I’m swallowed up by nerves in bigger crowds.
I spoke too soon about the place being mild. The second I step on the dance floor, the lights go out. A disco light above spins, creating that ’90s feel you see in so many pop videos from that era.
Hating the darkness, having not shaken off my childhood fears, I try to weave, staying with the light.
And I fail.
The dance floor gets busy, making it too difficult to move without someone grinding against my shadow.
A guy brushes my back, and a sweet scent surrounds me. He lingers, his hands grazing the same satin dress I wore on my night out with Shane—the only one I own.
Fingering the material between his fingers, he hikes it up until it reaches my hands.
His fingers wrap around mine, putting the satin into my hands, and I tense, knowing he can feel the scars on my hand, knowing how Shane always reacted to them.
My fingers move on the material as the man against me moves his fingers up my hips and to my waist.
I flinch again, edging back into his crotch, but it’s better that my ass touches his denim-covered penis than his hand touching my satin-covered bag for life.
Guys aren’t into those.
