He reaches out and takes my hand, leading me down the hallway to the bathroom. He yells at the people inside and gives them a minute before clearing them out. Once the bathroom is empty, he opens the door and I step inside. Maybe I misjudged him and he’s not really as much of a perverted jerk as I assumed a few weeks ago. Maybe Daniel and I could be more than friends and I should put more effort into him.
Inside the bathroom, I clean up as best I can. I rinse my mouth out several times until I realize that my breath isn’t going to get any better and, without an aid, I’m still going to be tasting my own vomit.
When I leave the bathroom, Daniel is nowhere to be found. My phone chimes in my pocket. I pull it out just enough to see he’s sent me a text.
HAD TO GO. SORRY.
Being alone here—again—puts me on edge. I stare down the hallway to find it’s completely empty save for me. With Dad and Uncle Jim already dealing with Aunt Ruby and Holly being on the warpath, it’s probably a bad idea for me to be so out in the open. There’s no telling what kind of hell I’ll have to live through if Dad knows I saw what happened in there. With that whore.
I eye Ian’s door at the end of the hall, bouncing from one foot to the other before I blow out a heady breath and decide that he’s my best bet to get out of here. I haven’t seen Tracie since she disappeared into the crowd with Diesel, and since we took her car, I’m kind of stuck. I would have opted to take my Bug except that if Grandma did happen to wake up, she would freak if she saw my car gone. So Ian it is.
My feet carry me to the doorway quickly. I curl my hand into a loose fist and knock on the heavy wooden door and wait. And wait. When the door swings open, a bleached blonde stands before me. She raises her eyebrows and looks me up and down in clear disdain.
“You’re not his type,” she says with narrowed eyes. Her eyes are rimmed with purple bags, and they’re glassy and red. She looks drunk. Or high. Maybe both. I don’t really know. Dad always kind of looks drunk and high, so there’s no telling.
I have so freaking had it with whores in this place. I just want to go home. Now.
“Ian,” I shout as loud as I can without screaming.
“Shit,” he says in a ragged voice that’s followed by a grunt.
My eyes fall shut as I bow my head. There’s nothing but sex and drugs everywhere, and I want none of it anymore. I don’t want to be someone’s old lady. I don’t want to help the Lost Girls during special occasions. None of it.
A minute later and Ian steps behind the chick in the doorway. His brows crinkle, and his lips form a flat line. He says, “We’re done here,” and reaches into the pocket of his jeans. His bare chest stares at me, full of scars that are laced with tattoos that depict bloody scenes of revenge and torture. He produces a few hundred-dollar bills and hands them to the skanky blonde in front of him.
“Don’t fuck it up,” he says. She pushes past me, shoving me into the doorframe, and then disappears from view. With his attention back on me, he says, “You’re going home.”
I nod, wanting to tell him what I saw and what happened with Daniel. For some reason I even want to tell him I knocked over that red cup in hopes that Chel would have to clean it up.
With her fucking tongue.
But I don’t. Because Ian isn’t the kind of guy who seems like he shares his feelings or bitches about petty stuff. His scars practically jump from his flesh and smack me across the face. Some of them are muted by the surrounding tattoos, while others seem to be accented by the ink surrounding them.
He slides back into the room for a moment and grabs a shirt and his cut. Another woman slinks out of the room. She doesn’t meet my eyes, and she clings to a large piece of fabric that is larger than a robe but smaller than a sheet, I think. Ian disregards her as he pulls the shirt over his head and then slides the cut on. I back up and give him room to lead me out of this horrible, disgusting place.
“You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” he says, leaning down so I can better hear him.
“Unless you can erase my memory of the last few months, I doubt anything will make me feel better.”
“Trust me,” he says, and I swear I can practically hear a smile in his voice. “And don’t worry, I won’t let you get busted.”
“Thanks.” Realizing how pathetic I sound, I try to force myself to lighten up a little. I got myself in this mess. I’m the one who decided it was a good idea to come here. I wanted to see what Jeremy’s birthday party would be like. Now I know.
Ian leads me through the main room, careful to disguise me from his brothers as we pass, and into an offshoot that’s only half-enclosed and holds a large, worn pool table. Ryan is standing against the far wall with his hands raised in the air. He’s shaking his head at the woman in front of him—the same bleached blonde who just left Ian’s room—as she drags her hands up and down his cut and then presses herself up against him.