“Hey, baby,” Noodle says. “You looking for me? I’m here.”

He’s here. In front of me like a wall. His arm slides around me and suddenly we’re walking again. But the music is getting softer, more distant.

“Music,” I say. “I want to dance.”

“We’re gonna dance, baby,” he says. “You and me.” The arm that’s around me is holding me up and also kind of cupping my boob.

It’s funny. Usually getting drunk makes me want to lean into him. Not tonight. Here and now I see him for the slithering snake he is.

No.

It’s funny, but not.

A soft click of a door latch and the music is muffled even further. My back is against the wall and Noodle presses up against me with his whole body. His hands push up my skirt. His mouth is on my neck, my chest. When I try to wriggle away, he takes hold of my wrists, pinning them beside my head.

“Shh,” he says.

Manhandled. I know what this means now. What it means to be up against a wall with no power and no recourse.

No. The word echoes in my brain. Maybe it has always been there, straining to break free.

“No!” When it comes out loud it feels like something should shatter. But nothing does. Not his grip on my arm. Not the look in his eyes.

“Stop!” I shout, but maybe it comes out like a whimper.

“You used to like it when I did this,” he says. “I know you like it.”

“No. Please.” There is nothing I can do. There is no fight in my body. I think about pushing against him but my arms are limp. I close my eyes. Maybe I can pass out and it will be like it never happened. He has been in me before. Maybe I won’t know the difference.

“Let her go.” Brick steps in and thrusts his arm like a bar across Noodle’s chest. He shoves him back. The front of me goes cold, now exposed to the room.

And then Noodle is gone, and there’s only Brick. Standing in front of me, holding me up. Someone has to.

“I have to go,” I mumble. “I have to get home now.” Somewhere, I have a purse, and phone. Kimberly—

“Nope. You’re staying here tonight,” Brick says. He lifts me up in his arms and carries me from this room to another one. Blue-gray walls, silver fixtures. Brick’s own bedroom.

He sets me down near the edge of the bed. He straightens my clothes and pushes back my hair. His face is so concerned. He’s sweet to me. Always has been. It would be easy. So easy to …

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t come at me like that unless you mean it.” He puts his hands on my wrists, real gentle. My skin still stings there from Noodle’s grip. I want to erase everything that just happened. Put myself back in the column of good.