The Resistance(84)
“Dalton!” I say, surprised to see him and even more so by his anger.
Danny’s hands are in front of him in surrender, and he says, “Hey buddy, like last time, nothing’s going on here.”
Before I can say more, Dalton’s rushing forward and grabbing him by the shirt.
“Dalton, no!” I yell. I grab Dalton’s arm, trying my best to pull him back, but his strength easily outmatches mine.
Danny’s ready to fight this time, his body as hard as Dalton’s, and equal in size.
Dalton pushes him in the chest, and says, “Then why the fuck do you have your hands on my girlfriend?”
Danny could fight back, but doesn’t. Instead, he puts his hands between them, and says, “You need to calm down. Holli and I are just friends.”
As a crowd gathers, I hear the whispers begin. I hate the whispers. Phones and cameras are out probably capturing the whole incident to share with the world.
“Just friends,” Dalton repeats, angling his body toward me. He points his finger accusingly. “You left. You left me to come see him?”
“No,” I plead, “you’ve got this all wrong.”
Dalton takes a step closer to me, his eyes wild, his actions equally unpredictable.
Danny matches him by moving next to me, his arm out in protection. He lowers his voice, a threat masked in words of peace. “She said you’ve got this wrong. Now calm down.”
Dalton fixates on Danny’s hand, which is a mere inch in front of my thigh, then drags his gaze back up, calculating, until his eyes lock on mine. Betrayal. He looks at me with hurt and betrayal. Just as I reach out to touch his cheek, he left hooks Danny who falls against the flimsy banner and hits the floor.
I hear the scream. I just don’t realize it’s mine until I see the look of horror on Tracy’s face.
Dalton leans over Danny, and threatens, “She’s mine, so keep your fucking hands off!”
“Dalton, what have you done?” I fall to my knees and touch Danny’s cheek that’s red and already swelling. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. We need to get you some ice.”
Tracy leans down, to help Danny up. “Holli, you need to go!”
“What?” I look at her and I see her own anger tinting her cheeks red. “Take him,” she says, pointing at Dalton, “and leave. I’ll take care of Danny and the booth. You both need to go.”
“Danny,” I say, “I’m so sorry.”
He won’t look me, but moves away to stand up. Tracy holds his arm as he gets to his feet.
“What?” Dalton asks, standing behind me. “You’re sorry? You feel sorry for him?” He looks shaken and confused. His hands are still closed, the veins in his arms pulsing, but there’s an innocence in his expression, the hurt coming through. “You’re taking his side?”
The whispers aren’t whispers anymore. They become louder, embarrassment sets in as: I’m chastised by Tracy, humiliated by Dalton, and feel horrible for Danny.
Security quickly takes Dalton by each arm, using their own threats of removal. He puts his arms up like he’s waiting to be cuffed. “I’ll go.”
Tracy and Danny move behind the shirt stand then walk toward the main hall of the convention center.
A fire has been set, an anger sparked deep within that fuels me. I turn, poking Dalton in the chest. “How dare you come to my work, hurt my friends, ruin my business, and make a scene like that! These are buyers, Dalton. This was my chance to grow and you ruined it. Nobody will want to work with me if they think I’m crazy and hanging around insane people.”
“Insane? Ha! Everyone loves a good show. They eat it up.” With an arrogant smirk crossing his face, he proclaims, “I’m Johnny fucking Outlaw. I just made your business.”
And there it is…
While backing away, my breathing becomes harsh, and my thoughts start spinning too fast to keep up. In a rush, I turn and grab my keys from the floor near my purse.
“I’m going. I’m going.” He’s aggravated, yanking his arms away from the security guards. I dash past him just as he calls to me. “Angel…”
I don’t stop. I go. I run, past the crowds, and the other booths. I run out the entrance, bumping into people along the way. I know he’s behind me. I hear him calling me. I feel our connection—stretching beyond being saved—his words the breaking point.
He catches me just inside the parking garage. “No. You can’t leave me. Holliday, don’t.”
Turning abruptly, I hit him on the chest, and yell, “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You don’t own me. I am not your employee, and I don’t owe you anything.” With a wave of pained emotion, I hit him again. “What you said in there… you took everything—everything—I’ve worked so hard for and you belittled it like it’s a casual hobby of a kept woman.”