It wasn't a supply room that he had me in—it was a crowded back office to the nightclub. Papers, books, and file cabinets filled the room that was already small and claustrophobic on its own.
My brain was alive, with a storm of synapses firing at once. All of my senses were on overdrive as I, even on a biological level, tried to piece together what was going on around me.
Never in my life had I gone from being a stumbling drunk to feeling relatively sober in such a short amount of time.
The man was glowering down at me, his dark eyes intense and terrifying. Fight or flight kicked in, and, much to my surprise, I chose to fight.
I twisted and turned my arms, trying to get them free as my feet worked to try and step on his boots. When I managed to pull one arm free, I swung back and started toward his face in a punch. He caught my wrist.
"Settle down," he hissed at me.
"F*ck you!" I spat.
