“Very soon. Why don’t you draw me the Queen of Hearts now?”

Adrienne shoves the drawing of Alice away from her, picks up a red pencil and starts on the queen, muttering under her breath.

By the time the police leave it’s dark and the house has a picked-over look. Adrienne storms from room to room, pushing things back into place and slamming drawers. I notice that she keeps checking her phone, too, and I wonder if she’s waiting to hear from her father. She doesn’t. Finally, at ten p.m., she clomps upstairs to bed without a word.

Over the next few days I brace for her to turn on me again. Though it would frustrate me it wouldn’t be entirely unexpected. I’m the closest person at hand to blame for everything that’s happening and she’s shown me she not particularly good at disentangling her emotions. But she doesn’t throw a tantrum or get bolshie with me. In fact, she’s too quiet. I almost wish she was still plotting against me.

We’re walking along the high street from the post office back to the car three days after her father’s arrest when it happens.

Out of the corner of my eye I see the figure stop dead, but I don’t attribute it to Adrienne’s presence. He’s in front of a shop window so it seems he’s looking at the display. But then he crosses the road, making a beeline for her, and I do look at him. It’s a middle-aged man wearing a puffy down coat. I put myself between him and Adrienne, holding a hand out to ward him off. He’s not carrying anything and his hands aren’t reaching into his pockets, but his attitude is aggressive.

“It’s you, isn’t it? You’re that stuck-up bitch of a newspaperman’s daughter. Well, screw you and screw him, you rich pricks. You goddamn parasites.”

“Sir, you need to keep moving. You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret later.” I speak slowly and calmly, neither advancing nor retreating. My other hand is at my side and a little behind me, and I can feel the brush of Adrienne’s skirt. She’s hovering close to my back. “There’s no need to take this any further.”

I keep one eye on him and another on what’s happening around us, watching for anyone who might be tempted to join in.

The man seems to notice me for the first time. “Get the hell out of my face! You can’t touch me, I’ve got the right to free speech.”

I’m not in his face, and I let him talk. The sooner he gets what he wants to say out and without getting any reaction the sooner he’ll feel he’s making a spectacle of himself and go away. This type of harasser is opportunistic and doesn’t usually present a violent threat. I don’t want him to say the things he’s about to say to Adrienne but it’s the quickest way to defuse the situation.

He steps closer, trying to get around me, but I stand my ground. His face has gone a vicious purple color. “Your father’s going to rot in jail for what he’s done. You’re no better, you’re going to rot, too.” He finishes with a string of expletives, spits at her, then marches off.

Adrienne lets out a little cry of surprise and revulsion. The man’s spittle has landed on her sleeve and I dig a tissue out of my pocket and clean it off. I say in a low voice, “You’re all right, you’re safe. Let’s get you into the car.”

I sound calmer than I feel. I imagine going after that piece of shit and beating an apology out of him. But I need to remain composed for Adrienne. As we walk I watch her face closely, wondering if she’s going to cry. When we get in the car she asks for another tissue and I find one in the glove box.

“Are you all right?” I ask, handing it to her.

“Everyone was looking,” she whispers, scrubbing at her sleeve.

I search for some comforting words. “I’m sorry, Adrienne. You did really well, though, staying close to me and not getting involved. I’m proud of you.”

She makes a dismissive sound and looks for a place to put the tissue. I open the center console and she throws it in. Then she puts her seat belt on and stares fixedly ahead. “I’m fine. I just want to get home.”

She’s not fine, and neither am I. Spitting and name-calling won’t hurt her physically, and normally I’m able to take confrontations like this in my stride even if my principal can’t. The fact this has happened to her doesn’t seem fair.

When we get back to the house she jumps out of the car and hurries to the front door. “I need a shower,” she mutters, heading for the stairs. But she pauses, a forefinger tracing a join in the banister. “Thank you for, uh, being there before.”

I’m so taken aback that I answer without thinking. “Of course. It’s my job.”

She scowls. “I know.”

It is my job, but I’ve just diminished what she’s said to me and I wish I hadn’t. I want to reach out to her and pull her into a hug, tucking her under my chin and feeling the tension ebb from her shoulders. She looks like she could use one. I feel like I need it, too, to comfort her. I might feel a little less useless.

As she turns to go I blurt out, “Wait a sec.” She turns to me in surprise, and I think I’m as surprised as she is. Searching for the right words, I finally say, “I can’t do anything about people like that. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean, do anything?”

Good question. What do I mean? “I can’t make things like that not happen. I can’t make angry people stop yelling or not hurt your feelings. I can only make sure nothing physical happens to you. I wish I could do more. I’m sorry.”

She ducks her head, suddenly shy, and speaks so softly that I can barely hear the words. “Don’t be silly, Dieter.”

I blink. “What do you mean

?”

“You do more than that. You make me feel safe.”

Tags: Brianna Hale Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net