Dirty Grovel: Chapter 5

Which is safer: frogs or clams?

It’s not a question I ever thought I’d have to contemplate. But here I am, smack dab in the middle of two loud, rowdy bars, trying to figure out where my best chance of hiding out is.

Señor Frog’s has a clientele made up exclusively of belligerently drunk and badly sunburned Americans. Mostly of frat boys and women with some truly heinous tramp stamps.

The Bearded Clam, on the other hand, is thumping with strange techno music, accompanied by strobe lights that are already giving me the headache of all headaches.

Hugging the shadows between both pubs, I check my freshly charged phone. But I can’t get a signal out here.

Sydney will have to wait a little bit longer.

I look up and notice a beefy cop strolling along the sidewalk. Nearly swallowing my tongue, I clutch my phone a little tighter and join a gaggle of giggling girls as they flock into Señor Frog’s.

I’m inside the pub only two minutes before I decide that, if this is what spring break looks like for most college students, I’m glad I never participated in it.

Trying not to be too judgmental, I skirt past the dance floor and towards the back of the bar, where the bathrooms are located.

The inside is relatively empty, thankfully, but it smells like piss and vomit. Which doesn’t exactly help my own gag reflex.

Trying as hard as I can not to breathe through my nose, I pull out my phone and drop Sydney my location.

She writes back almost immediately.

SYDNEY: Getting close to sending you the $$$. Hang in there.

Sighing, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Given how I feel, I actually look pretty decent. The bruise on my face has started to taper off a little. Under bad light, it looks more like I’ve overdone it with my makeup.

Although I have a feeling no one is gonna be looking at my face given the ridiculous “outfit” I’m wearing, courtesy of Oleg.

My curves are really curving in this string bikini. In a bar full of spring breakers, I don’t stand out too bad.

But I’m not interested in the type of attention those girls are clearly after.

Still, as much as I want to hide out in this bathroom until Sydney finds a way to send me some money, my stomach growls fiercely, reminding me that it’s been a few hours since I last ate.

And even then, I’d been so nervous about Oleg that I’d barely eaten anything substantial enough to keep me full.

Plus, the stench is starting to get to me. But out in the bar isn’t much better. Lurking beneath the bathroom and booze scents is the distinct odor of horny desperation.

Angling around a bunch of loud-mouthed frat boys who feel the need to whistle at every girl who passes by them, I beeline to the bar and find a seat in front of the bartender. He’s the only one who seems as stone-cold sober as I am right now.

“Yo,” he greets. “What can I get you?”

I scan the bar menu in front of me. There’s a club sandwich on there that sounds like just what I need.

Unfortunately, the thirteen-dollar price tag is not.

“An ibuprofen and some more clothes,” I quip, just as my arm is jostled by a drunk girl walking past.

The bartender laughs. His curly brown hair and hazel eyes are very attractive. As is his dimpled smile.

Objectively, he’d be right up my alley, looks-wise. But somehow, every time I try to find some smidgeon of attraction towards him, I come up blank.

I’d like to be able to deny why, but there’s no point.

Oleg Pavlov has ruined other men for me.

“Not having fun, are we?” he asks, doing a fancy little flip of the glass he’s holding.

I’m assuming that’s for my benefit, so I decide to milk his interest a little.

I don’t feel good about it—but hey, a girl’s gotta eat.

“You can thank the pickpocket who stole my purse while I was coming down the boardwalk,” I lie seamlessly. “He took off with the money I was going to spend on a nice dinner. It’s an hour’s walk back to my hotel and I thought I’d take a little break before heading back. Doesn’t help that I’m starving, either.”

The bartender raises his eyebrows, the picture of sympathy.

It’s working.

“So, if you don’t mind, I’m just gonna sit here—” I flash him a smile. “—and pretend I’m not hungry while I rest my feet before walking back to my hotel.”

He holds up a finger. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into the back through a STAFF ONLY door. When he returns a few minutes later, he’s carrying two plates. One is laden with soggy fries and the other is filled with chicken fingers dripping oil all over the wax paper.

Not the healthiest meal for a pregnant woman.

But beggars can’t be choosers.

“Eat up,” he says generously. “I’ll set you up with a nice drink. On the house, of course.”

“You’re too sweet.”

“Just call me Mr. Chivalry,” he says light-heartedly. “Now, about that drink—how about a piña colada? You’re in paradise after all, baby.”

Suppressing my cringe, I shake my head. “I probably need the alcohol, but I think I’ll go for a safe mocktail tonight.”

“You sure?”

“A hundred percent.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and starts to mix.

While he’s busy, I stuff my face with chicken and fries and scan the crowd. I can no longer see the cop from before.

Maybe he was just making the rounds.

There’s no way that Oleg would send out an army of cops for me… right?

Then again, I have no idea what Oleg is capable of anymore.

I scarf down more fries, reveling in their glorious greasiness. The burn in my stomach has ebbed.

I’m actually starting to feel a little bit like I might be able to get away with this—and in a bikini, no less.

Then I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I stiffen instantly, my body going ramrod straight as my instincts start pinging with warning signals.

It’s Oleg.

He’s found me.

I’m—

But when I turn, it’s not Oleg at all.

I’m face to face with a blonde man wearing a silk Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hairy chest. His eyes aren’t focused, but he’s wearing a huge, sloppy grin as he leans across the counter as though he’s counting on it to hold him up.

“Hey, there,” he purrs at me.

His breath hits me in the face like a freight train.

Tequila. Lots of tequila.

Maybe that’s why he’s forgotten to button up his shirt.

“Uh, hi,” I answer back as unenthusiastically as I can manage without being outright rude.

“You’re gorgeous,” he remarks, leaning in so far that his breath slaps me in the face yet again. “Let me buy you a drink?”

“Thanks, that’s nice of you, but I’ve already got myself a drink,” I gesture over to the bartender, who’s busy mixing in mint leaves and giving Mr. Frat Boy the stink eye.

“Forget that guy. I’ll get you another one then,” he insists.

I wipe my greasy hands on my thighs. “That’s really not⁠—”

“Take the freaking hint, Joel,” another guy declares loudly as he bumps right into Frat Boy. “She’s not interested.” New Guy flashes me a creepy grin. “Maybe she’s after something a little dark and dangerous… like me.”

Oh, boy.

I glance at the bartender, who’s rolling his eyes in their direction.

“I don’t think the lady’s interested in either one of you morons,” he declares. “Why don’t you two let her finish her drink in peace?”

Mr. Dark & Dangerous scoffs. “Dude, why don’t you go back to mixing drinks? We’re talking here.”

The bartender’s stare sharpens. Mr. Dark & Dangerous pulls himself up to his full height.

Frat Boy pushes himself off the bar counter.

There’s enough testosterone in here to suffocate a moose.

“I just wanna dance with the little lady. What do you say, beautiful? One spin around the dance floor with me and I swear, you’ll thank me.”

I glance between the three men, desperate to avoid the kind of scene that’s going to draw attention to myself.

Since the bartender’s working and Mr. Dark & Dangerous gives me the heebie-jeebies, I decide that Frat Boy is the safest option, hairy chest notwithstanding.

“Okay,” I mumble, getting off the bar stool. “One dance.”

He holds his hand up. “Scout’s honor.”

The relief that I’ve just side-stepped a potentially uncomfortable situation disappears the moment I’m on the dance floor with Frat Boy.

Safest option, my ass.

Dude’s handsy as hell.

And apparently, too drunk to get my “keep your hands to yourself” cues.

Every time I push his hands off my hips, he puts them somewhere else. It’s like playing a weird, twisted version of Whack-a-Mole.

If only I had a Taser gun, the game would be a lot more fun.

When his hands land smack dab on my ass—one hand on each cheek—I decide enough is enough.

“Too far!” I snap, swatting at his arms.

He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hands don’t budge. “That’s a sexy-ass bikini you’ve got on.”

“Stop it!” I yell, putting more force in when I push his arms away.

Whether intentional or not, I have no idea, but his reaction is to grab my tie-ups.

As he stumbles backwards, he ends up ripping one string clean off.

The crowd cheers loudly as though he’s performed some sort of party trick.

Now, I’m standing here, under pulsing red lights, wearing nothing but a humiliated blush and a half-torn string bikini.

I need to recalibrate my “safest option” radar. It sucks.

“Yeah, I’m done here.” I twist around as more and more people peer over at me.

I’m hardly the most scantily clad girl in here, but it still feels like I’m booty-ass naked.

Maybe because I’m the only girl in here who seems to care that I’m wearing a bikini and nothing else.

“C’mon, babe, where are you going?” Frat Boy complains as he snatches my arm. “We’re not done dancing.”

“I say we are,” I scowl, still holding up my ruined top. “Let me go.”

He’s grinning stupidly at me but his eyes are nowhere near my face. A little more south than that, actually, and he shows no signs of shame. His clammy hand is still locked on my elbow.

“Let. Me. Go.”

I rip away from him, wincing hard at the pain his clamping fingers leave behind. Other girls collect records or posters or freaking Beanie Babies.

Me? I collect bruises.

Bruises and the bad men that make them.

“Don’t be like that, babe⁠—”

But at the exact same time, both him and I are dwarfed in shadow.

“If you value your hand, I’d let her go right fucking now.”

I’ve never been more relieved or more terrified to hear his voice. Frat Boy is looking like a stuffed goose, his eyes practically bulging out of their sockets as he takes in the formidable male specimen that is Oleg Pavlov.

He winces out of Oleg’s shadow, releasing me at the same time.

Oleg glances down at my arm. Frat Boy’s fingers are still indented into my skin. There’s a pale red streak beginning to form where his grip was at its tightest.

Oleg’s eyes snap to Frat Boy’s. The fury in them is so evident that Frat Boy flinches and starts to stutter. “Listen, man, w-we were just… having some f-f-fun…”

If my arm didn’t hurt so damn much, I’d almost feel sorry for him.

But I think everyone in Señor Frog’s can see what is starting to dawn on Frat Boy.

It’s too late for explanations.

And it’s definitely too late for apologies.

Oleg takes one step forward. His right hook is a thing of beauty as it careens through the air towards Frat Boy’s face.

I hear the shattering crunch of breaking bone.

Then the collective frozen gasp that rises off the watching group of people that have formed a loose circle around us.

Frat Boy lands on his back on the sticky floor, his nose bent in an odd direction, blood spurting from both nostrils like a running faucet.

I start toward him, then stop.

I have no idea what I want to do. Laugh at the handsy asshole or help him?

But before I can decide, I’m being lifted clean off my feet.

A bunch of people break out in applause as Oleg tosses me over his shoulder and makes straight for the exit.

Drunk idiots. As if any woman would actually want to be hauled away by an angry caveman.

But even as I hammer at his back with my fists, it dawns on me: A great many women would actually want that.

Especially if said angry caveman looked and walked and smelled like Oleg Pavlov.

Even in my flustered and embarrassed state of mind, I can pick up notes of sea and salt and oaky musk mingling with his sweat. It’s like his specific scent was designed especially for me.

Pheromones for Sutton Palmer.

Tagline: She can’t resist…

… Even when she should.

The moment we exit the pub, the pulsing lights and chaotic noise fades to darkness and quiet.

I would be grateful if it weren’t for the nausea roaring to life in my belly.

“L-let me go!” I scream, pounding at his back.

He might as well be a wall of concrete for all the impact I make. The only pain I’m inflicting is to my own fists.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d picked me up, he sets me down.

The world goes right side up again, but it doesn’t help with the nausea.

I spin around and run straight to the dark corner in the alleyway he’s brought me to.

Then I proceed to throw up chicken fingers and French fries alongside the chipped brick wall.

A few more seconds and I’d have been wearing my own vomit.

Once I’ve emptied my guts, I straighten up, only to be caught by a dizzy spell so bad that I start to wonder if someone might have spiked my drink.

It’s not such a crazy thought. I’m a foreigner wearing a bikini in the middle of a dodgy club.

“Walking target” in the dictionary just has a picture of me.

I step back and lose my footing. Thankfully, there’s a strong hand there to catch me.

I twist around and meet those gold eyes.

A shudder crawls up my spine. Again, I’m caught between relief and terror.

Maybe that’s why I don’t fight when he twists me around and leads me to a waiting car with tinted windows.

All I want to do now is make sure my baby is alright.