Page 11 of Blood and Buttercups

“Shh,” Ethan murmurs, licking my neck before he loosens his grip on me. “It’s done.”

He says it in the same tone a nurse would use after he’s given a child a shot.

“What did you do?” I demand, jerking out of his arms, my fingers rising to my neck. I push back the high lace collar of my dress. “Did youbiteme?”

“You’re fine, Piper,” he says calmly, adjusting his tie.

When I pull back my hand, there’s blood on my fingers. Suddenly dizzy, I sway on my feet.

Ethan reaches for me, but I hold out my hand, demanding he stay back. I reach into my purse, looking for a weapon. My hand clasps around a pencil.

It’s all I have, so it will have to do. I hold it in front of me, brandishing it like a wee graphite spear.

With a sigh, Ethan steps in. “Piper, listen?—”

“Stayback,” I warn, extending the pencil.

He takes another step forward, eyeing my elementary weapon with distaste. Terrified he means to grasp hold of me again, I stab it into his hand.

And then I run, trying not to think of his howl of pain. I reach into my purse, fumbling for my cell, only to realize I left it in the Lamborghini.

My heels bite into my skin, but I can’t stop—I need to get to a phone. Every few seconds, I look behind me. But Ethan isn’t back there.

Finally, I reach a road with cars. I walk along the street, hurrying to the gas station that’s several blocks down. When I’monly a few yards away, the ankle strap breaks on my left heel, making me seriously question my fondness for cheap apparel.

Limping, I push through the glass door, and the electronic bell chimes. A man in his early twenties glances up from behind the register, bored.

I must look like a hot mess because his eyes fly wide. “You okay?”

Resisting the urge to touch my neck, I ask, “Where’s your bathroom?”

He nods toward the hall off to the side. I pass king-sized candy bars and cheesy knickknacks. My hand trembles so severely, it slips off the handle when I grasp it.

Once I conquer the doorknob, I make a beeline for the mirror. It’s dirty around the edges, and the glass is streaked, but I couldn’t care less right now.

I pull down my lace collar, gaping at the twin puncture wounds on my neck, and then swear under my breath.

Stumbling back, I push the collar back into place.

What do I do?

Should I go to the police? What would I tell them? That my datebitme? They’d advise me not to play so rough and get a good laugh behind my back.

No, that’s out of the question. I need to go home and disinfect it. If Ethan contacts me again, then I’ll file a restraining order.

I glance around the dingy bathroom and wash my hands for good measure.

“Can I use your phone?” I ask the attendant when I step out.

“Customers aren’t allowed…” He frowns at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I had a really crappy date, and I lost my phone.”

“Okay, well…just this once.”

Like I’m going to come in here asking to use it again.

I step up to the counter. “Thank you.”