A Season of Firsts

Chapter 32

I think Mabel heard me wrong when I said "inconspicuous". The dress is black, but in no way will it help me to turn into a wallflower this evening. It's satin, with a high neck, fitted bodice and a daring slit that reaches the top of my thigh. She's paired it with studded black heels, and my hair is scraped back loosely into a bun at the nape of my neck, with curls falling around my face. My makeup is bronzed and effortless, save for my bright red lips.

Luckily, Hallie and Mabel look even more stunning, so no one will be looking at me. The emerald tone of Hallie's dress compliments her gorgeously, and Mabel's red princess style dress begs to be admired. It scares me to think of how much she shelled out for these, but she says she has a friend in the fashion business, so I can only hope she didn't break her bank account. If it could even be broken.

Much like yesterday at dinner, I'm jittery, and I have turned to alcohol as a stress reliever. Only for tonight though. I just need to get used to being in a similar environment to the club on New Year's Eve again, and tonight is the perfect opportunity.

"He's watching you like a hawk," Hallie notes, something akin to awe in her voice. She's referring to Rory, who was already here, chatting with his parents and their friends when we walked in the double doors of the ballroom. He did a double take when he saw us, and we made eye contact for a brief few seconds before I forced myself to rip my gaze away. It was hard, especially considering how gorgeous he looks in his suit and tie. I headed straight for the bar, and I haven't so much as looked in his direction since. It's easy to do, since I'm hyper aware of his presence in the grand room, so I know where to position my back to.

"I wish he wouldn't," I say, annoyed, "I can handle myself."

"I'm sure you can. What number drink is that?" she teases.

"Oh, only number six," I tease right back, taking a generous sip, although I've lost count. That's the danger of an open bar.

"Want to dance?" Hallie asks, "It might drag Mabel away from her socialite duties when she sees us having more fun than she is," she says, smirking. Mabel has been working the room since she got here, and you can tell she is adored among her parent's friends and acquaintances. Although I haven't introduced myself, I've also been studying her parents, trying to spot resemblances between them and their children. The way they hold themselves is almost regal, and they radiate importance, but they seem very friendly from the smiles and laughs that surround them at all times, all the guests eager to please the hosts. Mabel's mother, Meredith, has a fair yet bronzed complexion, with deep brown curls falling across her small shoulders. She's petite, wearing six-inch Louboutin's to decrease the height difference between her and her giant of a husband, Patrick. He's equally as attractive as the rest of the family – it seems unfair that they share such amazing genes – with dark greyed hair and strong features. I caught his eye at one point, and there was a flicker of recognition in his expression, but I quickly smiled and busied myself with the conversation that surrounded me before things could get awkward. I was imagining the exchange in my head – "Hi, I'm Addy, I'm a good friend of your daughter's, and I was with your son, but he broke up with me because I involuntarily cheated on him, even though we weren't officially a couple, but I still managed to fall in love with him in the time we were together and I miss him like hell but I can't say anything because he doesn't want me anymore, especially after he saw the mess I became after I was sexually assaulted by the man I sort of cheated on him with. Lovely to meet you." Yeah, no.

"I'd love to dance," I reply, the vodka doing the talking, and I follow Hallie onto the dance floor that is sparsely populated with guests. If I wasn't intoxicated I would have run a mile at the thought of drawing attention to myself.

We have a laugh, taking turns to spin each other and mimicking the slow dancing of the couples taking themselves seriously. Hallie has good rhythm, and we move in perfect sync together. If I'd have believed in my ballroom dancing capabilities, I would have dipped her in the middle of the floor.

I'm gasping for air by the time we take a break, and Hallie heads for the bathroom, so I decide to get myself another drink.

"Vodka, lime and soda, please," I say politely to the barman with a sweet smile on my face.

"I'm really sorry, ma'am, but I can't serve you another drink," he says, an apology in his eyes as well as his words.

"Why not? Is the bar closing?" I look around, noticing other guests being served drinks further down the bar.

"No - it's not that," he says, fumbling over his words.

"What is it, then?" I ask, not rudely, but I'm growing impatient.

"I was instructed not to serve you another alcoholic drink. I could get you a soft drink, if you like," he offers, but I would not like a soft drink. Not in the slightest.

"May I ask whom it was that cut me off?"

"I don't know if I'm allowed to say, ma'am," he says, unsure of how I'm going to react.

"Does his name happen to begin with R and end in Y?"

I see the answer in his expression, though he says nothing. That bastard.

"Thank you for your help," I say, barely able to contain my anger, but I don't want to redirect it at him. He was just following his orders. Orders that had no right to be made.

I'm silently fuming, and I start toward the bathroom before I end up saying or doing something that I'll regret later. I told myself I would not be making a scene tonight, and I'm going to stick to my promise to myself. I've sobered up slightly, meaning alongside my anger, my anxiety due to the social situation is gradually skyrocketing. I need to be alone so I can take some deep breaths and calm down.

I'm halfway to the bathroom, moving through the crowd, my heels clacking on the hard floor, when a hand grabs my arm. I turn to the source, my heart pounding in my chest, and it's a man, maybe in his late twenties, tall, muscular with a cropped haircut and dressed in a sharp grey suit. He has a lovely face, I can't help but notice, but it's ruined by the suggestive expression he wears on it.

"Can I help you?" I ask, breathing heavily, trying to shake my arm free, but he keeps his grip firm.

"That depends, will you let me buy you a drink? I saw you having some trouble over there and wondered if you needed some assistance," he smarms. He says the word 'assistance' with a strong insinuation in his tone, and I feel sick. My breathing gets shallower, and New Year's Eve plays through my mind on a constant loop of pain.

"I'm okay, thanks," I say, and try to pull away again, but my physical strength has deserted me, my body changing its priorities to keep me breathing. "You don't look okay," he says, his eyes analysing me. "Come on, I'll get you some water instead, come with me." He easily holds onto me, and pushes me through the crowd ahead of him, his palms locking onto my hips. Suddenly, we're in a darkened corner of the room, and I can't let this happen to me again. I am ready to scream at the top of my lungs for help when the man is ripped from beside me, his hands leaving behind a burning hot branding on my skin.