I roll my eyes as I turn to face the guy from the bar, who’s followed me across the room, his jaw set in anger. There’s a large wet patch on his crotch from where the drink I “spilled” landed, and, judging by the wedding band I can see on his finger, I’m guessing that stain’s going to be pretty hard to explain when he gets home to his wife tonight.
I guess groping the waitresswasn’tsuch a great idea after all, was it? Who would’ve thought it?
“Is there a problem, Sir?”
I straighten my shoulders, trying to make myself look taller. God knows I’m used to dealing with creeps — it kind of comes with that “dive bar” territory, you know? But this one is angrier than most of them, and as he takes a step towards me, I briefly wonder if I should try to reign in my impulses some of the time — at least when it comes to the customers.
I bet there’s a 12-step program for that. I should look into it sometime.
“You better believe there’s a problem, you stupid Scottish bitch,” Drunk Guy says, taking another step closer. “And you know what it is, too.”
A couple of flecks of spittle land on my cheek, and I try my best not to gag as I raise my hand to pointedly wipe them off.
I donotget paid enough to deal with this shit.
The man is right up in my face now. His breath stinks of beer, and there’s something caught between his front teeth. I hover somewhere between justified fear and the totally illogical desire to insult him again, and, before I can figure out which side to land on, an arm reaches out from somewhere behind me and pushes Drunk Guy firmly in the chest, making him stagger back a step.
“Hey, knock it off,” says Mr. 3.5, speaking as if this is a perfectly normal conversation to be having with a stranger in a bar. “And watch your language, will you? No one wants to hear that shit.”
He moves a sliver closer to me. I really want to look around and see what he’s doing, but I don’t want to miss Drunk Guy’s reaction, so I just stand there, feeling a bit like Princess Leia when Luke and Han finally turn up to rescue her. The difference is, though, that Leia immediately took charge of that situation, like the strong, sassy woman she is, and I’m just sort ofstanding here, feeling a bit stupid, really. And also kind of scared, if I’m honest.
(Oh, and the other difference is that Han Solo wasn’t wearing pool slides and a hoodie, obviously. Harrison Ford’s career would’ve taken a totally different trajectory if he had been.)
Drunk Guy stumbles backwards, then rears forward again, squaring up to 3.5 as if he’s getting ready to fight him. Behind the bar, Summer whirls around to see what’s going on, and I see her reach for the phone, ready to summon Joel, the security guard. Just as she picks it up, though, Drunk Guy has a sudden change of heart.
“Oh,” he says, his bushy eyebrows raising in surprise as he looks from 3.5 to me, then back again. “Wow. Sorry, man, I didn’t realize.”
I look on, confused, as he raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Wow,” he says again, his eyes still fixed on 3.5. “No offense, man. I’ll get outta your hair. Can I buy you a drink, in fact? Here, lemme buy you a drink…”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wallet, but 3.5 continues to stand there behind me, his body radiating heat onto my back.
“No need. Just leave the lady alone, got it?”
The man behind me hasn’t moved since his initial contact with Drunk Guy, but now he steps away and sits back down at the table, leaving me feeling strangely exposed without his comforting presence behind me.
I wish he’d come back — pool slides, weird beard and all.
Drunk Guy raises his hands again before walking backwards, all the way to the front door, which he almost trips over in his attempt to find his way through while still staring at 3.5. As the door finally closes behind me, Summer shoots a questioning look in my direction, which I answer with a quick shrug of the shoulders.
Not me almost starting a fight between two of the customers. Nuh-uh.
“Um, thanks,” I say, turning to the table, where 3.5 and Silver Fox have resumed their conversation in hushed voices, the brief altercation already forgotten. “That was really… decent of you. I mean, I could totally have handled it obviously, because I’m a strong, sassy woman. Like Princess Leia. But, you know,thanks.”
I actually mean what I’m saying, but I’m not really used to speaking so sincerely — or randomly mentioning Princess Leia — so the words come out a little stiffer than I intended. I plaster on my brightest smile to make up for it, and 3.5 looks up in time to catch the full effect of it.
“You’re, you know,welcome,” he says, allowing those luminous eyes of his to rest on me for a second. “I hate creeps like that. Hey,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “You’re Scottish, right? I noticed the accent.”
I nod, hoping he’s not going to tell me he’s one fifty-third Scottish on his mother’s side, or ask me if I know his great-aunt Jeanie, from Shetland. I get that kind of thing a lot. What is it with Americans and their need to be something else all the time? Why can’t they just be themselves?
Haha, nice one, Lexie. Likeyoucan talk.
Thankfully, though, 3.5 has something else in mind.
“Can you recommend me a whisky?” he asks, swirling his glass in distaste. “A better one than this, I mean? I heard of a new blend called The 39, or something like that. You heard of that one?”
I stand there open-mouthed as the floor of the bar drops sharply away from me, making me reach out and grab the table in front of me for support.
