“Shark, you’re drunk’ said Gaston tightly, pulling him away from me. I shuddered, feeling violated. But the underlying anger in Gaston’s frightened me.
’Yeah, but not too drunk to know a good one when I see it!” chortled the man, undressing me with his eyes. “Young too! Honey, when he’s done, I’m next!” he announced loudly as he stumbled off.
I stared at the ground, flushing, shamed.
Gaston watched his receding figure, his eyes dark and cold, then downed another tumbler of whiskey.
The room felt stuffy and I longed to leave, to get back to my children. This was not my world and I stood stiffly with a soft drink, feeling totally out of place, mulling over Gaston’s public acceptance of me and his children. It was way past midnight and I was exhausted. Gaston, stood a little away, a drink in hand, laughing loudly as some of his friends made a joke.
A server came up to me and whispered that I had a call from the house. Thinking of my twins, I hastily followed the man out. He led me along a corridor and indicated a door at the end. Without stopping to wonder why a phone call should be taken in a remote room, I stepped inside and gasped as the door shut behind me.