Page 27 of Brutal
Instead, he closes the car door for me and then takes out his phone.
The car begins to move. I watch the streetlamps go by. The motion should settle me.
It doesn’t.
My hand is still on the door handle.
I force myself to let go.
This is ridiculous.
It was dinner.
One conversation. One man. One?—
My wrist pulses.
I look down at it before I can stop myself.
There’s nothing there. No mark. No lingering pressure.
And still?—
I can feel exactly where his thumb moved.
I curl my fingers slightly, pressing into the inside of my wrist as if I can override the sensation.
It doesn’t help.
My pulse jumps under my touch.
I drop my hand into my lap.
No.
That’s not what this is.
I shift back against the seat, crossing my legs, trying to put distance between myself and the memory.
It doesn’t work. Because it isn’t just the touch. It’s everything around it.
The way he leaned forward—not abruptly, not aggressively—just enough to change the atmosphere between us.
The way his voice lowered when he spoke, like the rest of the room didn’t matter.
The way he looked at me. Not at my dress. Not at my body. At me.
I’ve sat across from men like him before. Men with money, power, influence. They usually look at you like you’re a commodity.
He didn’t.
He looked at me like I was…
God…
Almost like I was a riddle. Or a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve.
I turn my head toward the window and watch the city pass.
