“This your woman?” the asshole questions with a layer of disbelief covering his tone. “Yeah, I saw you sitting at the table with her. She appeared lonely coming out of the bathroom, so I figured she wanted a real man.” He moves to stand beside Mark and places his hand aggressively on his shoulder.
“You okay, Jackie?” Mark questions, seemingly unaware that the douchebag is touching him.
I nod to reassure him, but then start glancing around for a restaurant employee who can help. I take my eyes off Mark and the douchebag for all of two seconds before I hear …
“Ah, shit! Let me go.” Followed by a loud thud.
Flinching at what sounds like someone hitting the very hard, tiled flooring, I turn to face Mark and the guy, and my mouth falls open. Mark, somehow, has used the guy’s arm for leverage, causing him to fall to the ground. Not only that, he’s still holding onto the man’s twisted arm in what looks like a very painful wrist lock. I’m ashamed to say, but seeing the guy scream out in pain satisfies me just a tiny bit.
“Mark.”
“She asked you nicely the first time. Shame you couldn’t just fucking listen, shithead.”
“You’re breaking my arm,” the guy bellows.
Now, the waitstaff I’d been searching for seconds earlier seems to come out of the woodwork. Other patrons are starting to notice as well, although no one intervenes, either out of shock or fear.
“It’s not broken yet, but it will be if you don’t shut the hell up.”
“Okay, okay! Ah,” he yells again when Mark hikes his arm up higher, thus twisting it even more.
“Apologize to her.”
“I’m sorry,” he cries as he peers up at me.
I see the tears of pain and probably embarrassment welling up in his eyes and nod.
“Now, get the fuck out of here. And next time, listen when a woman tells you to back off.” Slowly, Mark releases the man.
For a moment, I think he might try to retaliate or something, but the pitiful expression on his face tells me he’s too ashamed to do anything. He stumbles right into the arms of two burly busboys who promptly escort the man out of the restaurant through the back door.
An older woman emerges from the kitchen door. “Are you okay, Mr. O’Brien?”
“Fine,” Mark responds, waving her off. “No te preocupe por ese, Señora Gonzalez.”
I blink as the woman responds to Mark in Spanish. The conversation is short, but I sense she’s checking over him.
“Ready?” he questions as if we’re simply leaving the dinner table.
Swallowing, I nod and head out in front of Mark. I walk faster than usual as the heat of my anger bubbles up.
“Why’re you walking so fast?” he inquires minutes later, right before we get to the parking lot where we’re both parked.
Spinning on my heels to look him in the eye, I say, “What the hell was that?”
He blinks, staring at me with a dip between his eyebrows. “What?”
“You could’ve gotten hurt.”
That statement only angers him. Mark’s expression morphs from confused to pissed off in the blink of any eye. But, this time, his anger doesn’t bother me because I’m pissed, too.
“Are you still fighting?” I growl.
“Yes.” He looks me square in the eyes as he answers.
“How, Mark? Isn’t that dangerous? You could hurt yourself. Or—”
“Or what? End up paralyzed? Too late for that.”
