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Chapter 8: Self-Defense

I turn on instinct, nail my attacker with my elbow just like I learned in self-defense class. I hear a grunt, catch a whiff of alcohol and stale weed mixed with pungent aftershave.

Spin to see Roger bent over his ribs, one arm protecting them while he scowls at me.

I let out a shaky breath, sag as I nab my purse and drape it over my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I say. "But you scared the crap out of me."

He straightens, tossing back his long hair now free of its ponytail. "Nice hit." He winces. Smiles like a leading man on a soap opera. "You impress me more and more, new girl."

"Riley," I say, feeling my tension return as he plants himself in front of me. Between me and the door. "My name is Riley." What is he doing? He can't mean to block my way out. He's just being friendly.

Riley, Ian's voice says, the loudest I've heard it in a long time. Get out. Now.

"Your scene with Mr. Hill was quiet impressive." Roger doesn't seem to take the hint I'm not interested, leaning closer. From the faint tracing of veins in his eyes, he's had more to drink and probably to smoke than is good for him. "I know a few directors who would love to talk to you, no matter how raw your talent."

That makes me pause. Is he being genuine? Ian scowls over Roger's shoulder, angry, protective. I know better. "Thanks," I say, softening a little despite my growing unease. I can handle this if all he wants is to hit on me a little. Especially if he means it. "That would be great."

Roger's smile turns wolfish. "A little private work with me," one of his hands lifts to land on my waist while Ian's voice shouts at me to run. Roger shuffles closer, head bowing over me, "Some private sessions, and you'll be ready for Broadway."

So, not genuine at all. I need to learn to trust Ian-to trust my instincts feeding Ian's furious apparition. My original assessment Roger just wants to screw me seems to be accurate. Time to go.

I push against him, trying for as nice a rejection as I can come up with, but he just advances on me, forcing me back faster than I'm prepared for. I retreat, knowing I should just hit him and run, but I'm already moving, two chairs squealing over the floor as he forces me between them and toward the wall. My back hits the plaster with a dull thud. Before I can gather my thoughts and my breath, Roger presses close to me, trapping me between the cold brick and his body.

Ian glares at him, unable to help me, as unable as I am to help myself in that terrible moment.

I'm smothering in Roger's rancid scent, the heat of his body, his hands suddenly everywhere as I feel panic for the second time in only a few minutes. But this time I freeze, forgetting my self-defense training in the face of a real assault. I know I should move, act. Instantly blame myself for not just f*****g doing something.

Riley. Ian's voice is loud in my head.

Heart pounding, lips parted, gasping for air, my body flinches from Roger's roaming touch, my muscles seizing, breath stopping at last as his mouth descends.

And his hand squeezes my breast.

RILEY!

Light bursts behind my eyes, smashes my inability to move into a million pieces as Ian's shout shatters my freeze. Reflex lifts my right knee and nails Roger between the legs with all the strength I have.

Roger screams, falls back from me and I can suddenly breathe again, cold air washing over me, his scent still lingering, clinging as I lurch forward, stumbling over him where he writhes on the floor. I stagger past Ian's shade. To the door and out.

Out into the hall stinking of urine and vomit, wanting to add my own puke to it, breath whistling out of my lungs as I pound down the stairs, fly toward the door.

Through it while Ian chases me.

And into Miller's arms.

He holds me as I sob once, clinging to him, shaking. His hand makes soft circles on my back until I pull away, fury finally rising in place of my terror, a surging response to my own weakness.

"Son of a b***h!" I'm snarling like an animal, arms thrashing. I turn and kick the door with the toe of my boot. The glass cracks at the bottom, spiderwebbing out from the point of impact. I've just vandalized the wretched place, but I don't care.

I don't care.

Miller's scowl is so deep he looks like an angel ready to throw off his halo and descend to hell. "What happened?"

I tell him, voice still shaking, only then realizing the image of Ian is gone and there is only Miller with me. Have to hold him with the full weight of my body to keep him from going back upstairs.

Miller quivers against me, stronger than me by far, but allowing me to keep him here for whatever reason.

"I handled it," I say, fighting to pull myself together, to shake off the irrational rage mixed with loathing I have for my own inability to defend myself, no matter I finally managed to strike back. "He won't be walking for a while." I hope I hurt him so badly he'll never walk again.

Or touch another girl. Like he touched me. My body shudders and I just want to go home and take a shower. Burn my clothes, because that's a rational reaction to being pawed by a disgusting old man.

Miller nods, sharp and tight, though he still strains against me. "I'll make sure everyone knows," he says. "Roger's done."

"I should call the cops." I really, really should. I can't be the only girl he's done this to. But I don't reach for my phone, and Miller's anger turns to sadness.

This isn't a TV show. It's reality. I could report him, try to charge him. Because I don't want this to happen to anyone else. But it's my word against his. For all I know, he might turn this around on me and charge me with assault.

I have no proof. We were alone. Ian's ghost doesn't count.

Pisses me off, knowing Roger will get away with it. Until I absorb the grim look on Miller's face. This is a big city, but a small community. I have a feeling Miller will be good to his word and Roger won't be teaching again, at least not here.

I hate to let it go, but I have no choice.

Miller offers his hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you went back in there alone." I take his fingers in mine, welcome the firm warmth of his skin. "And I had no idea he'd go so far. To my knowledge, he's only ever been a creep in the past."

I suppose I should be flattered. By now, with Miller beside me, the fresh air in my lungs, I've shaken off most of my fear, anger starting to cool. "Not your fault," I say. "Maybe he learned a lesson." The good girl in me whispers maybe I misjudged, overreacted. Asked for it.

No way. I can still feel his hands on me.

I just hope this isn't the norm, or I'll be on my way back home. Already making a plan to protect myself in case there's a next time with someone else, I allow Miller to lead me down the steps, knowing I won't be back here, to this class, regardless.

"I hope this won't make you think about quitting," he says, real concern in his voice, clearly reading my mind.

But no. I'm not going to let one disgusting bastard ruin this when I'm just getting started. I clench my jaw against the already fading memory of Roger's stench and answer. "Not a chance." I flash Miller a smile, refusing to let Roger and his groping hands dominate my night any further.

Miller seems to relax. "You're a natural," he says. "That scene was amazing."

I know exactly how he feels.

Miller pauses, squeezes my hand before letting me go. "If I'd known how good you are," he says, "I would have told you not to bother with Roger. A few of us go because we like the setup. But you won't learn much from him."

Except to avoid his groping. Yeah.

"You really want a place to play?" He seems hesitant, shy almost. I'm amazed he's even asking, and that he seems nervous around me of all people. "Because I know the perfect place for you."

I don't know why I trust him so much. But I do.

"Let's go," I say.

***