CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER ONE

Rafael Navarro

“Let me get a piece of that ass, pretty boy. Name your price.”

I was pouring whiskey into a crystal glass when the man lounging in the VIP booth made the suggestion, his grin widening as his friends burst into laughter. I gave him a polite laugh of my own, the kind that cost me nothing and saved me the trouble of arguing with a drunk man who probably thought his money made him irresistible.

“Sorry, sir. Not available for purchase,” I replied, placing the bottle on the table.

His friends laughed harder, and even the man who'd made the comment raised his glass in acknowledgment. “Fair enough. Can't blame a man for trying.”

“Of course not. Enjoy your evening.”

I moved on to the next table, still smiling. Ever since my foster father caught me masturbating when I was nineteen, I had been kicked out of the house—and, of course, handed over to our neighbor, that disgusting man.

The music was loud enough to vibrate through my ribs, making me feel slightly nauseous—though that might have been because of that man, too. Now I was thirty-two, working two jobs, and simply too exhausted to care about being offended by every stupid thing that came out of a customer's mouth. They could make disgusting comments, embarrass me in front of their friends, and act as though my body was another luxury they might afford, but I could reject them, no matter what they thought.

I hated these people, but some were generous tippers. I knew they came here to celebrate business deals, forget their wives, or spend money they would never have to work as hard for as I did.

Still, others believed a few hundred dollars entitled them to my time, my attention, and sometimes far more than either.

How laughable.

“You. Get over me.” A harsh voice broke through the noise. It was my manager, calling out to me. He was standing in front of a table where two intoxicated men were seated.

Oh, God. I was just so damn unlucky.

I reluctantly walked over to him with a tray of drinks. My manager, Derek, always found ways to make my job harder ever since I turned down his advances.

Yes, he had pursued me once. But his advances had started with compliments that made my skin crawl. Then came the unnecessary touches, the messages after midnight, and the invitations that became increasingly aggressive whenever I refused. I'd told him plainly that I wasn't interested. I'd even reported him once, only to be informed that I shouldn't risk my position over a misunderstanding. After that, Derek stopped pretending his attention was harmless. He reminded me regularly that he controlled the schedule and could make sure I never worked another shift if I continued embarrassing him.

I hated him, but I needed the money more than I needed the satisfaction of telling him exactly what I thought of him.

I approached his table. “Good evening, sir. Your order?”

I approached the table, shot a brief glance at my manager standing beside them, and addressed the two men. “Good evening, gentlemen. What can I get for you?”

“About fucking time. I've been waiting forever,” one of the men in a white shirt spat out bitterly.

“I apologize for the delay. It's a busy night, but I've got everything you requested.”

I placed the drinks in front of him, careful not to spill anything, and reached for the empty glasses. Before I could straighten up, his hand cracked across my face.

The tray slipped from my fingers. Two glasses hit the floor and shattered, and the sharp sound seemed to travel through the entire section. For a second, I couldn't move. My cheek burned, my ears rang, and I stood there trying to understand why a grown man had just slapped me for bringing him a drink.

Then he pointed at the broken glass.

“Look what you've done, you fucking idiot.”

Something inside me turned cold.

“You hit me,” I said.

He leaned forward. “And?”

People at the neighboring tables had started watching us. One of the security guards approached, but before he could reach the booth, Derek stepped in and hurried to appease the customer.

“Mr. Bennett, I'm terribly sorry about this. We'll have the glass cleared immediately.”

I looked at him, waiting for him to acknowledge what had happened.

Derek grabbed my arm. “You're coming with me.”

He dragged me through the service corridor before I could pull away, taking me into a small storage room behind the bar. The music became muffled when he shut the door, and the sudden quiet made the pounding in my ears seem louder.

“Have you lost your mind?” he demanded. “You don't speak to a client like that.”

“He assaulted me,You knew he was going to lay a hand on me.”

“You're still standing, aren't you?”

I stared at him, disgusted. “That's what you have to say?”

“You need to learn how this business works.”

“No, Derek. You need to learn that I'm a person, not something you can order around whenever you feel like it.”

His face changed at that. The professional mask he wore in front of customers disappeared, revealing the resentment he'd been hiding beneath it.

“You've become very bold lately.”

“I'm not being bold. I'm telling you to stop treating me like shit.”

He stepped toward me, and I moved back instinctively. “And I'm telling you to show me some respect.”

“I've shown you enough respect. I've told you I'm not interested in you, and I've told you to stop touching me. What exactly are you still struggling to understand?”

He seized my wrist.

“Let go.”

“Stop acting like you're better than me.”

“Derek, let go of my fucking hand.”

Instead, he pulled me closer. I tried to wrench myself free, but he caught my other arm and shoved me against the wall. Pain shot through my shoulder, and the back of my head struck the plaster hard enough to make my vision blur.

“Get off me!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“GET OFF ME!”

I pushed at his chest, but he pinned my arms against the wall. His breath smelled of whiskey, and his face was so close that I could feel it against my skin. When he tried to kiss me, I turned away and began struggling harder, kicking at his legs and twisting my wrists until the pressure became unbearable.

“Stop fighting me,” he growled. “You think I haven't been patient with you?”

“Patient?” My voice broke. “I've told you no. I've told you a hundred fucking times!”

He forced himself closer, and his hand moved against my body.

Something in me gave way.

I wasn't in the storage room anymore. I was nineteen again, trapped in a house where my foster father had decided my fear was an inconvenience, where my screams hadn't stopped the neighbour from dragging me away.

Nobody knew how terrified I was back then.

Now Derek was holding me against a wall, ignoring my pleas, and my body remembered everything before my mind could catch up.

“No,” I whispered. “Please, don't.”

He didn't listen.

“Please! I said no!”

I fought harder, but he struck me across the face and told me to shut up. The sound of his voice sent me spiraling, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. I was crying, though I hadn't realized I'd started. I could hear myself begging him to stop, could feel his fingers digging into my skin, and all I could think about was getting away.

“Please, please, please,” I sobbed. “Don't touch me. Get off me!”

He tried to force my arms behind my back.

I screamed.

It came from somewhere deep inside me, from a place I'd spent thirteen years trying to keep buried. I wasn't thinking about my job or the police or what might happen afterward. I wasn't even thinking about Derek as a person. I was terrified, trapped, and desperate to make him stop touching me.

My hand struck the worktable beside us. I reached blindly for something, anything, and my fingers closed around a small utility knife used to open supply boxes.

When Derek lunged for me again, I swung.

The blade went into his side.

He jerked away with a strangled sound, releasing me at last. I stumbled forward, caught myself against the table, and stared at the knife in my hand as if I'd never seen one before. Derek pressed his palm against his side. When he pulled it away, his fingers were red.

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

Then he took a step backward.

“Derek?” I whispered.

His knees buckled. He hit the floor, knocking a box of supplies from the table, and I dropped the knife as though it had burned me.

“No. No, no, no.”

I fell beside him and pressed my hands against the wound, desperately trying to stop the blood. It spread across my palms and soaked into my white shirt.

“No, Derek. Please, look at me.”

His eyes were open, but he didn't answer.

My hands began to shake so violently that I struggled to keep them against the wound. I pulled out my phone, dropped it, and fumbled to pick it up.

While I was trying to place the call, the door was suddenly thrown open.

Mary, our co-worker, stood outside the door. The next second, I heard her scream.

“My God, Rafael, what on earth have you done? You killed Derek!”