Page 35 of Your Pace Or Mine

I give him a sly smile. “I can’t say I’m that prolific, but let’s just say I made my way through a good portion of the list.”

That’s not even close to the truth, but I doubt he wants to hear about my dateless adolescence. There weren’t a ton of guys in the theater program of my arts high school, and the straight ones didn’t look twice at my skinny, tap-dancing self, but that’s all in the past now.

“Maybe I’ll make my way onto your list too.” He strokes my hand lightly while he looks at me with a hungry glint in his eye. So far, he’s on my list of success stories from the app, but I’m thinking he’s more into being a notch on my bedpost.

“So, you’re saying you want to be one of my conquests?” I laugh. “Or you want me to be one of yours?”

He leans in closer, almost near enough to kiss me, and I realize I’m holding my breath. “Can’t we do both?”

This guy is laying it out there, and I’m okay with that. It’s been a while since I’ve had a date with real chemistry, but Clint and I seem to have it in spades. The air sizzles with electricity. Sure, these are old lines, but he delivers them with heat and a slight touch of irony, so I’m not complaining, especially after what feels like dozens of bland dates.

Our banter is interrupted by a waiter with another round of cocktails. After downing our drinks while we chat about movies, he asks me to dance—more like a cursory ask as he pulls me onto the floor. We move pressed against each other as the area fills with people. I haven’t been dancing in ages, and the music and drinks go to my head, leaving me feeling light, almost bubbling over. Clint leans in and kisses me under the ear, making my body light up. I press further into him as the music pumps.

He shifts away as the song changes and, taking my hand, leads me over to the edge of the dance floor. I lean back on the wall and pull him in close to me. That’s all the encouragement he needs to kiss me hard on the mouth. My blood races as he runs his hands up my sides. I can feel his hard body up against me and it’s making me wild. Damn, it’s hot. Until it’s not.

Suddenly he’s pushing too hard, shoving his tongue forcefully into my mouth so I can barely breathe. One hand yanks the neckline of my dress way down, making me feel exposed in this public place.

I lean my head back as much as I can and pull my mouth away, giving him a gentle push. “Whoa, slow down a little, okay?”

His smile doesn’t seem so friendly now, and his eyes are hard. “What do you mean? I thought you were into this.”

“I was. I am. It got intense for a second, and I need a breather.” I try to keep my tone light, giving him a small smile. I wasn’t opposed to a hook up tonight, but I don’t want this guy’s tongue all the way down my throat. Dial it down, buddy.

“A breather. Yeah, okay.” He sounds sarcastic, like I’m the unreasonable one for not wanting to flash my push up bra to everyone in this club.

“Yes, a breather. It was fun. I just needed to come up for air.” I’m not sure I want to continue this. Right now, this large man is between me and the room, and I’m starting to look for an exit plan because he’s not backing away. My heart races. This is why I don’t go to clubs alone.

“I know who you are,” he says, coming in very close.

What does this even mean? “Ashley. That’s who I am.”

“You’re that Miss Midtown chick. I’ve seen your reels blasting your bad dates and the poor slobs who don’t meet your ridiculous expectations.”

I blink, not wanting to confirm his allegations. I’ve been pretty fair with my bad dates, anonymizing as best I can and not telling some of the worst stories. I want to be funny, not mean, and to give a little advice to the more clueless men out there. “I don’t know what you⁠—”

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.” He’s angry now, his voice rising. “You’re Miss Midtown, and they’re paying you to hook up with men and bitch about it. So what’s the deal? Aren’t you getting paid to bang me too? Let’s get to it, sweetheart.”

He leers and leans in even closer. I turn my head so he can’t reach my mouth, and snarl, “No fucking way, dude.” Then I slide a hand down to his crotch and squeeze lightly, amping up the pressure when his eyes widen.

“I’m extremely close to making you very sore, so you can either pull away or spend the rest of the night with a bag of frozen peas on your balls. Your choice.”

He pulls away muttering, “Fuck you, bitch.” Before he can reconsider letting me go, I’ve darted away. Good thing I didn’t wear stilettos.

There’s a security guard halfway between where we’re standing and the hallway to the restrooms, so I stand next to him and catch his eye. He nods.

Clint decides not to push it, just turns and yells, “Have a nice fucking night, Miss Midtown,” as he walks away. I watch him leave, willing myself not to cry until I figure out the next steps, both for the social media account and for me. I need to get home and I’m not okay. My body is shaking. Why did I come here alone? I’m so stupid.

I find a relatively quiet corner to pull myself together and weigh my options, hoping that by the time I leave, he’ll be long gone. What I really want to do is call Laurel. If I could, I’d get in my car, drive to where she is, and crawl in with her, even if it meant kicking Cal out of bed. But she’s in North Bay, and I can’t exactly crash at Cal’s parents’ house. Plus, she was freaking out over tonight; she’s probably still out with Cal’s friends, and the last thing she needs is to be pulled away to deal with my crisis. I consider calling Stevie, but she’ll flip out and want to come down here, and I don’t want to take her away from her family so late at night.

Sebastian. I have a sudden longing for my old friend, to have him hold me and let me cry. I’ll have to talk to him anyway, since Clint may go on a social media tirade, but I also know that Sebastian will make sure I get home safe, if he’s not with some chick right now. Only one way to find out.

Bash, are you around? I had a bad night. My date turned into a creep. Don’t want to say more over text. It was rough. I’m still at the bar.

He writes back immediately.

Who do I have to kill?

Kidding, kidding. Sort of. Where are you?