My phone vibrated.
Greg: I’m so, so sorry. Was on a post-op phone call that would NOT end. Ordering my Uber now.
He was still at home? It was all the way on the other side of town. I squeezed the phone so tightly in my hand, I worried I’d break it. If I was being reasonable, I knew it wasn’t his fault, but it was hard to be reasonable when I was hot, had aching feet and a stomach that had been churning with anger for the last twenty minutes.
Greg: Where are you? Still waiting outside?
I stabbed the screen with my fingers.
Cassidy: Yup.
Greg: Go on in, don’t wait for me. I’ll be there in 15.
Cassidy: I have your ticket.
The dots blinked across the screen, then vanished, and finally . . .
Greg: Shit. You want to meet at the lounge by the entrance? You won’t have to wait outside.
I glared up at the large windows opposite me, and my irritation burned hotter as I watched the people inside the air-conditioned building, laughing and sipping on drinks. I didn’t want to have to remind him, but he’d obviously forgotten.
Cassidy: I’m not 21.
More blinking dots appeared and then disappeared, and I pictured him swearing to himself.
Greg: Traffic’s moving fast. I’ll be there soon. Again, I’m sorry.
Cassidy: K.
I wasn’t sure what else to say. The situation sucked, but I should have expected it. Greg’s job was demanding, and he’d spent more than a few dinners on the phone with patients or the hospital while Preston and I ate.
Scalpers tried to sell me tickets while I waited, anxiously watching the cars that pulled up with the Uber sticker in the window. Even though the concert had started a while ago, people were still arriving in droves, not interested in the warm-up acts.
A pack of guys, who looked only a few years older than me, meandered down the sidewalk, and their slow, steady approach put me on alert. A hyperaware sense of anxiety kicked in. I stared at the ground, not wanting to make eye contact. I’d been to enough parties at Vanderbilt to be wary of a group like this. Toxic masculinity mixed with pack mentality was a dangerous combination.
“Hey,” a male voice said. I hoped it wasn’t directed at me, and glanced at my phone, even though whatever was on screen wasn’t registering.
“Hey,” the guy said again, louder and closer. He had to be talking to me.
The pack had stopped moving, and the tallest one of the group was staring, an interested expression painted on his face. As he took me in, I had no choice but to evaluate him as well. He wore a gray t-shirt and ripped jeans, but they were the expensive kind where the rips were intentional. He was okay looking. His nose was a little long and his eyes matched his dull colored shirt, but my instincts were immediately to run.
“You out here waiting for me?” he said. The corners of his mouth turned up in a teasing smile.
“No, sorry.”
I tried to look beyond him to reinforce my lack of interest, but he didn’t move. He just stood there staring, and I reluctantly turned my attention back to him. His half smile had deepened into a wide grin.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?”
I blinked. Did he really just say that? Even though it was technically a compliment, the way he’d delivered the cheesy line was anything but flattering, and I felt my expression sour. “My name is ‘Not Interested.’”
His friends snickered, but the guy was unfazed. If anything, it seemed to egg him on. He stepped toward me, invading my space. He was close. Too close, and I backpedaled—only the wall was there, hot against my back.
His friends kept their distance. Most seemed uninterested in what was going on, but it was hard not to feel intimidated with the tall guy looming over me, and the way his smile reached his eyes, it was clear he knew it. He saw how nervous he made me and enjoyed it.
He was scary.
“Why not?” he asked, looking smug. “You got a boyfriend?”
I’d been raised by a strong, feminist mother, and since I was literally trapped, this guy had activated the part of me which was all teeth and claws. “Does that make a difference?” I snapped.
My question caught him off-guard, but he recovered and looked at me like I was being silly. His tone dripped with condescension. “Of course, it does.”
“Why?” I lifted my chin and narrowed my gaze, giving him time to come up with an answer, but he stumbled. “Is it,” I continued, “because that means I belong to someone else?”
Confusion threaded his eyebrows together. “Uh . . .”
“I already told you I wasn’t interested, but, no. You won’t respect that. You’ll only step off when you think I’m another man’s property.” I straightened my shoulders and tried to stand as tall as possible, pretending I wasn’t feeling threatened. “I’m not interested in you, or being anyone’s property. Goodbye.”