Page 55 of Raziel

“Go say hi,” Carla urged, nudging me. I had told her about him.

“Nah,” I said, too quickly.

“Maya.” She gave me a look. “You said you’ve been staring at your phone for five days. Go say something, or at the very least, stunt on him in this dress you’re wearing.”

I hesitated. Then smoothed my dress and walked toward him.

Of course, the men surrounding him noticed me first.

The laughter died down as I approached, replaced by low murmurs and elbows nudging ribs. Some of them knew of my history, and before rehab, about the drugs.

Nobody dared talk about the old me. Nobody would remind me of who I used to be. Not when it could get back to Priest. He had warned everyone, and with him, consequences weren’t whispered about—they were experiences that left scars.

Raziel didn’t look up, but I knew he knew I was there. In that moment, I should have walked away and held on to some of my dignity. He took a slow sip of his drink, ice clinking.

I stopped at the edge of the booth.

Silence.

Five seconds. Ten.

Finally, he held out his empty glass.

“Get me another drink, waitress.”

His tone was flat. Cold.

The booth erupted in laughter.

I stood there.

Then I took the glass.

Picked up the bottle of Rémy Martin Louis XIII Cognac.

I shoved it in his direction, the liquid sloshing over the rim, onto his pants.

“Oops,” I said, sweet as poison.

For half a second, his jaw tightened. Then he waved me off like a fly. “Dismissed.”

Oh no, this motherfucker didn’t. I oughta—

I stopped myself mid-thought and looked around, at where we were.

Maybe he was embarrassed by me. Maybe he didn’t want these men running back to his fiancée and telling her about me. She had directed him to stay away from me. Me and my sister were bad news, husband-stealing. Maybe he thought pushing me off was protecting me somehow.

I told myself all of that, over and over.

But none of it stopped the sting.

I turned and walked away, shoulders straight, heels steady. I made eye contact with Carla. She had seen the entire thing; she had a look that screamed apologies for encouraging me on her face. She took a step in my direction. I shook my head, waving her off.

I made it to the bathroom. I locked myself in the stall, pressed my forehead to the cool metal door.

Idiot.

I didn’t sob. Didn’t scream. Just sat there, letting hot tears streak my mascara.