“By the way,” he says, fingering the fabric, “I’m loving this leather jacket on you.” His hand slips under my blazer, then my skirt. I feel his frozen fingertips trail up my thigh. He tilts his chin up. The whites of his eyes look jaundiced. My eyes dart to John Eastman, who flashes a leering grin. I fight against the tension in my muscles and recoil from Rudy’s grip. “It’s faux leather, Rudy. Tell the boss to pay me more and I’ll get a real one, just for you.”
