Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I hope I didn’t ruin the piece.”
“No, it was fine. I don’t think anyone noticed since we were doing our audience sweep.”
I wipe a fresh tear with the back of my hand. “Am I kicked out?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.” She stares at me for another moment, like she’s trying to figure me out. “You’re okay now?”
“Yes. Just embarrassed. Thank you.”
She nods and goes back inside.
I sag against Flynn’s sturdy body. I’m so glad I didn’t tell Kat and Adrian or anyone else that I was performing tonight. Having them see my meltdown would’ve been completely demoralizing.
“Bozhe moi. I don’t know what happened. Did I faint?” I ask. I can't even remember. It was like I blacked out. I don’t recall what triggered it.
“No.” Flynn strokes my cheek with his thumb and leans his forehead against mine. “You just froze and started hyperventilating. You looked…” he swallows.
“What?”
He shakes his head, and I know he’s going to hide the truth from me.
“Tell me,” I say fiercely.
He glances away. “You looked scared. More than scared. You looked terrified. It scared me. So I picked you up and brought you out here.”
I blink, stepping out of my shoes and into Flynn’s for a moment.
He’s a real caretaker. Cadence’s words echo in my ears.
Gospodi, I don’t want to do this to Flynn. Make him my caretaker. My rescuer. I wanted to be strong and in charge up on that stage tonight.
“Did…did that guy touch you? Or say something?” Flynn has an uncharacteristic edge of violence to him, almost like he's channeling Adrian's overprotectiveness.
“What guy?” I try to remember what happened before I blacked out, but I can't seem to recall anything.
What is happening to me?
“I don't know–the last guy you took money from before you freaked out.” Flynn shakes his head. “Nevermind–it doesn't matter. We don't have to talk about it.”
I shiver in his arms, the cold catching up to my bare shoulders and thighs.
“Do you want to go back inside, or do you want to bail?” When my forehead scrunches, he says, “By bail, I mean leave?”
“Let's leave. Please.” Fresh disappointment courses through me at the fact that I couldn't finish the dance. I hate that I'm tucking tail and running away, but the thought of going back inside turns my stomach. For some reason, I feel certain I’ll go back into a full attack again if I do.
I'm so damn disappointed that my anxiety ruined my big night. Just when I was feeling so good.
“Do you want me to go grab your stuff?”
I don’t need a rescuer. This isn’t fair to Flynn.
“I can go in,” I say, but I don’t move. I’m not sure I actually can. There’s something huge looming, just beyond my conscious mind, waiting to attack.
Flynn sees my hesitation. “You can wait in the van. I'll turn it on so it gets warm.” He guides me into the parking lot with an arm around my shoulder. He opens up my side of the van and helps me in, then walks around to the driver's side and turns it on. “I’ll be right back, Peaches. Lock the doors, okay?”
It’s a strange thing to say–Flynn doesn’t usually caution me about safety. I snap the locks down as the grating of metal grinds and clangs in my ears. Tears prick my eyes, and my chest balloons with air I can’t swallow or exhale.
The sense of peril returns as I watch Flynn jog back into Rue’s.
I’m not in danger. I’m not in danger. I’m totally safe right now.
My therapist explained to me that our bodies respond to immediate threat with either fight, flight, freeze or fawn.
I happen to freeze.
She explained my body now carries the memory of my trauma, and the same response gets triggered even though I’m no longer in danger.
I rock back and forth in my seat, trying to push back the panic threatening to overtake me.
Maybe I’m not safe here. Why did Flynn tell me to lock the doors?
The memory of being grabbed from the parking lot at work flashes in my mind to the sound of chains rattling.
Oh God. Chains. The cuffs. The collar. The leash.
Flynn returns and starts up the van. “My place?” he asks.
I force myself to nod.
“Flynn,” I choke. “I smelled cigar smoke.”
“I’m not following.”
“Tonight at the show. That’s what set me off. It was the same smell as–”
“Oh fuck.” Flynn seems to understand. “The smell triggered your fear response or something.”
“Exactly.” My belly shudders in on a breath. “Do you think–” I can barely speak the possibility. “What if it was him?”
Flynn looks over at me, brows dipped. “I doubt it was,” he says. “I mean, was it? Would you recognize him?”
For some reason, I can’t dredge up the memory of his face–it’s hidden in the shadows of my mind. I just have the idea of a sneer. It was just the smell.