Chapter 29

My feet are positively throbbing in these monstrous shoes. For the past hour, each step I take feels like glass embedding into my already tender skin. Who knew that $1400 heels could make you loathe your existence for the night?

I'm heading for the bathroom, my silver Swarovski encrusted gown sparkling under the multitude of highly lit chandeliers as I pass by the crowd. Briefly, I glance behind my shoulder, checking on Grant. He has a large smile on his face that puts my nerves at ease; he’ll be fine without me for a moment.

This particular exchange between our newest German clients has been Grant’s most comfortable evening yet. Given his multiple nods and few interjections tonight, I take it he’s starting to catch on to the language himself—I might be out of a job soon.

Joking.

Jokes aside, however, the only thing I'm most worried about at the moment is getting out of the shoes of torture. The ladies’ room is the perfect catering spot. Posh and fancy, with black satin stools and low mirrors, so you can powder your nose—if you still do that sort of thing.

I'm checking my phone to see a text from Kitty, right before entering the bathroom.

You still up for coming over for tea next Thursday?

I respond with a quick yes, only because I can. If I didn’t have an escort and someone by my side at all times, thanks to Grant, whenever I go out in the city, I wouldn’t be going anywhere. Even more women have been disappearing over the past several weeks.

It even has a name now. It’s been dubbed “The Wide Awake Attacks”, because it’s been occurring on busy streets or in broad daylight. Scary as fuck, if you ask me.

I hug my middle for comfort, battling the flip in my stomach as I look to the wall in front of me and see the poster in the middle.

If you didn’t know what it was, you’d probably say the graceful backside of a lady walking away in a flowing dress was the latest posh art piece to hit town. The oil brush-like strokes combined with the soft pastels make you want to look at it, but the harsh, fat red lines crossing the woman out let you know this isn’t a painting you’ll be taking home. And if you were still doubting, then the words “Two are stronger than one. Stay awake during Wide Awake” in bright yellow at the top, imprint a strong message.

Women aren’t supposed to be traveling alone right now.

At least not in this town.

So with that reminder, I update my calendar and send it to my public schedule for my escort to see it, then I head for the bathroom.

Heaven knows how long I need to sit to alleviate even a margin of the pain that is shooting up the arches of my feet.

After crossing the threshold of the bathroom, I kick off my heels and let out a huge sigh. The sound echoes off the walls and judging from the lack of hellos or responses, I seem to be alone. A nice break, if I'm being honest with myself.

This event has been one of the most draining yet. I’m no longer afraid of showing my face at large gatherings as much as I am fatigued.

The women are snobby, the men are entitled, and everyone is having a cock fight over who has the biggest yacht or plane.

I’m so over it.

Thankfully, Grant will be my night-cap after this mess. He looks so delicious tonight in his custom Armani, that I made plans the moment he stepped out of his bathroom to slowly peel his tux off him and trail my tongue over each inch of exposed skin, until he pins me to the mattress.

A well-earned reward, I think.

I sit for a long while and rub my feet, moaning and groaning the whole time. It's probably a good thing nobody is in here, since it sounds like I'm either slowly dying or having the fakest orgasm of my life.

The pain in my left foot, which is by far the worst, is beginning a slow reprieve when there's a crack.

It's an odd crack—one that your ears don't tend to like. It puts you on alert and twists your stomach.

My neck jerks upright, the bones at the base of my skull twinging. My head stiffly attempts to glance over my right shoulder. I look toward the stalls, but there’s nothing.

No one.

Despite the ghost town surroundings, I hear a small shuffle in the distance, but still, there’s nothing.

Each fingertip bites into my palm when I think of how long I’ve been in here, and that since, not one woman has come in to join me.

Event types don’t matter, whenever you’re at one, the women’s bathroom is always in use. At least one other person is usually present at all times, but not here.

Something’s not right.

My skin starts to crawl. It starts in my fingertips, slowly creeping up into the top of my shoulders, and it finally bleeds into my lungs, swirling inside of me so I can’t breathe. And that’s when a bite of panic hits me.

Grant. I need to get to Grant and stay with him, all night. The faster I can shove my feet into these heels and leave, the better.

My right foot crams inside, my pinky toe almost catching the outside of the shoe because of my hasty action.

My left leg is stretched out for the other one, with my foot ready to leap back into the creation of pain when—

“My. My.” This man’s voice—it’s familiar. My heart races at an uncomfortable rate due to the false sweetness of it, and I’m certain I’ve heard it ... recently. “Olivia Tucker. Am I lucky tonight, or what?”

I check the mirror. In the shadows behind me, a figure shuffles against the wall and then slowly moves closer.

The scream I want to emit doesn’t happen. The shriek is getting eaten up by the fresh wave of terror clawing at my neck. My mouth parts wider when the figure stops directly behind me and stares at me through the mirror.

I’m looking at none other than Seth Alec, tux and all, and the eyes I first described as puppy dog eyes are that of a trained attack dog—and I know I’m the prey.

Tags: Garnet Christie Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net