So I was leaving.
I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to leave, since everyone we’d drove here with had dispersed in the bar and even if I found someone who had the keys to the van parked somewhere down the street, no one could drive.
I’d call a cab. Figure it out. My friend Allie dropped out of school and got a job on some sitcom here, I’d crash with her. Things tended to work themselves out.
But first I had to escape Harry’s sweaty hands that had tightened around my upper arms when I’d screamed that I was leaving.
“But baby, why?” he yelled, trying to yank me closer to him.
I yanked back. “How about ‘cause I’m not your baby?”
He furrowed his brows in a confusion only an arrogant drunk boy can have when presented with a girl that didn’t want to worship at their feet.
Or even go to first base with them.
He let me go.
Which I was thankful for.
He shrugged. “Your loss!”
And then he turned and stumbled slightly toward the restrooms. I worried about leaving him here when he was obviously drunk and so not as mature as he pretended to be. But he all but tripped over one of his friends, they fist-bumped and I lost my sense of worry.
I took a last pull of my beer, set it down on the bar and turned toward the exit. I’d call Allie when I got onto the street and she might actually be able to hear me. She’d already texted me her address anyway, I’d just catch a cab if I couldn’t reach her.
Or maybe she was at some fabulous Hollywood party and I could salvage my night, get discovered and become a sitcom star too. But I had a crappy memory and was terrible at pretending to be something I wasn’t, so I didn’t think I’d make a good actress.
At least I’d have a story to tell.
I collected stories. My own, of course. I tried to make them as exciting and vibrant as possible, because that’s how I wanted to remember my life.
I also liked to collect other people’s stories. Hear what they’d done, where life had taken them, how they got to where they were, if they thought about where they were going.
L.A. was bound to have some great stories.
Hence why I loved the city. And because it was so diverse. It was a city of angels and demons at the same time. Made dreams come true for some people by crushing the dreams of others. It was glossy and gritty.
I’d decided I’d move here once I got done with college. Not that I wanted to go. But my parents wanted me to go and they very rarely tried to nudge me toward a particular decision, because they knew me, but I knew they worried about my future. They worried about my “lack of direction”—my guidance counselor’s words, not mine.
And I loved my parents, adored them. Something that a lot of kids my age didn’t understand. Then again, kids my age were treated like kids. My parents treated me like an adult and let me grow into whatever one I wanted to be.
So I wanted to make them happy.
And college would be fun.
Full of stories.
I was toying with what my major might be when someone snatched my arm in a sweaty and rough grip that was not at all like Harry’s.
“Woah, where you goin’, pretty lady?” the man who had his arm on me without my permission asked, slurring his words.
Yes, it was that cliché. Need I even say more? His grip was confident, firm. Stifled with that male entitlement that certain men had buried within them. They thought any woman walking past must secretly find them irresistible and no really meant, ‘violently yank aforementioned woman between my thick legs so she can smell the beer and stale sweat on my clothes’. The man in question did just that, and slurred what he thought were sweet nothings but were really just a string of offensive, sexist and vulgar words.
“Sir, you’re drunk, and I’m so not interested, so how about you let me go and we forget this happened?” I asked through gritted teeth. I wasn’t one to get angry, even when people manhandled me, but my usually non-existent temper seemed frayed and uneven.
Not that it was making a difference.
Like at all.
The man did not let me go. He didn’t even betray he’d heard me speak, or felt my meager struggles. He was drunk and sloppy, but he was a large full-grown man. I was moderately tipsy and not large or fully grown. If you wanted to believe the science, I wouldn’t be fully grown until twenty-five and I was stunting my growth with things like alcohol. I idly wondered how much booze this man had imbibed in his youth. It hadn’t stunted his physical growth, but I was guessing it did a lot of damage to his mental health if he thought this was correct behavior.