“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, babe.”
Sarah takes this as her cue to slide off my lap, hands reaching out to help me and Bethany up as well. Grace steps right into my path, stopping me from walking away. I’ll give her about three more seconds before I shove her out of the way and tell her to fuck off. I like to think this is me being patient.
“You know what I don’t understand?” she asks.
“That could be a lot of things. You’re gonna have to narrow that down.”
We’re both wearing heels, but because we stand at the same height, we meet eye to eye regardless. She steps closer, a smirk on her face.
And I start that internal clock.
“I just don’t get how you’ve ever been deemed talented at anything besides spreading your legs.”
One.
She continues, Addison’s smirk egging her on. And now me shoving them is going to be the last of their concerns because I’m about to slam both of their faces into the nearest hard surface. “I mean, I’ve seen your dancing and it’s honestly not surprising why you had to give that up. I’d be embarrassed if I danced like that too.”
Two.
I try to remind myself that taking ballet lessons from someone who doesn’t even know what a Croisé Devant is probably isn’t going to do me any good but punching her in the nose probably would.
I take a step closer to her, just enough to let her know that my patience is wearing thin. Bethany and Sarah remain behind me, letting this play out. For now, at least.
“At least I can say I have a semblance of talent,” I bite back. “What’s yours, Grace? Picking men that have the tendency to want to fuck anyone but you?”
“You’re a fucking washed-up bitch, you know that?”
And three.
I shove Grace. Hard. She knocks into Addison, quickly losing her balance. Unfortunately for me, Addison apparently can handle her liquor because her hands quickly grip Grace’s arms to keep her from hitting the floor like I desperately wanted. And because I don’t get my desired outcome, I pull my arm back, hand balled into a fist. But large arms wrap around my waist, pulling me away from Grace.
I push against whoever it is but my legs come off the floor, only making me try and push back harder, not caring if I have to fall to the floor as long as I can get my hands on Grace, who’s now staring up at Preston.
She rubs her shoulders where I shoved, bottom lip now sticking out in a pathetic, desperate pout. I look down at the arms around my waist, seeing dark skin and the ring on hisindex finger. It doesn’t calm me down. In fact, it only makes me more annoyed.
“Get the fuck off me.” I struggle against Lucas’s grip.
Bethany and Sarah give me a thumbs-up, grimace on both of their faces as Lucas carries me away. His steps don’t falter even as I try to kick him with my heels. He sets me back down gently but he keeps his hand around my arm, holding me in place. I try to shove him away.
“Hey.” Lucas rests his other hand on my hip. The gentleness in his voice catches me off guard. So much so that I stop trying to pull away, instead stepping closer to him, my hand moving to hold his forearm—needing something to hold onto.
The back of my throat and chest burns and I can feel tears begin to well in my eyes. I know Grace just wanted a reaction but that didn’t stop me from giving her one.
“You’re a fucking washed-up bitch, you know that?”
A bitch? I’ve been called that since I started middle school and didn’t care what kind of trouble my mouth got me into. I’m sure this isn’t going to be the last time I’m called that.
But being called washed-up snapped something inside me. The words opened up a wound that I’ve been slapping bandages on for the past eight months. I’d argue maybe even a year when my accident happened. Then surgery failed because I didn’t listen to the doctors and thought I was untouchable and started dancing too soon.
I have no one to blame but myself for failing at the one thing I was good at.
She’s right.Grace is right.
I’m washed-up. A has-been. Someone so close to everything she had ever wanted and now is left with nothing.
“Come on.” Lucas softly nudges me, gesturing toward the back door of the house, blocking me from Grace and Addison’s view.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, instead using my energy to keep from crying. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let Grace Monroe see me cry. I’d honestly rather trip into oncoming traffic than shed a tear because of her. Let alone allow her to see any of those tears.