Page 32 of Mail Order Bride: A Psychological Thriller

I’m searching for Joel among all the people, but I can’t find him. Chad Hensley’s hands are on my hips and he's pulling me closer. He reeks of liquor and bad intentions.

“Alice,” I say, pushing him away. “The woman you’re going to marry next month.”

“Alice smalice,” he tells me, slurring his words. He gets handsy as I wriggle loose of his grip. I feel the crowd closing in, pushing us together. “Come on, baby,” he says. “Don't do this. Not again. You know—”

“I have to go,” I say, cutting him off. Because he's right. I do know. I know exactly what happened the last time I rejected Chad Hensley's advances. Everyone knows.

I step up on my tippy toes and search for Joel. Finally, our eyes meet. I see something reflected back, something that both scares and excites me. “Go home,” I tell Chad. “Sleep it off.”

It happens in an instant, too fast for me to stop it. His fist twists around my hair and he pulls me close, so close our noses are practically touching. “Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?”

I push him off, shoving him backward so hard he stumbles. He recovers quickly, because well, that’s Chad. He closes the gap between us with a single step. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he spits.

“Fuck off,” I say and there’s an audible gasp in the crowd. Ladies in this town don’t speak that way, especially not in public. If only I’d stopped there, but I don’t. I surprise even myself with the slap that's heard around the world. It’s like the entire barn goes dead silent. The music stops. The only sound is the thump of my heart. I finally find Joel’s face in the sea of people, but mostly I’m thinking what I just did.

I've just slapped the second most powerful man in this town.

The look on Chad's face—I can't describe it. There’s complete shock, and then there’s rage.

My attention shifts briefly to Joel, but he isn't cheering, and he isn't smiling. He looks as though he's just lost his best friend.

I feel something shift. Maybe it is just my overactive imagination in the heat of the moment. But I know what I see.

I can hear my mother's voice; it’s her warning tone. She repeats the words that have echoed so many times before in my head. “Let a man know too much, and he'll be gone.”