I don’t want that tonight. The last thing I want to do on my day off is clean up busted furniture and glass.
“Your place sucks,” he says as he climbs to his feet and reaches into his back pocket.
“There’s a bar down the street you may like better,” I tell him, snatching the ten he throws on the bar as soon as it touches the varnished wood.
“Fucking ugly bitch anyway,” he says before he stomps away and throws open the door to the bar.
Snow blows in, sending a chill through the room.
“You didn’t have to do that,” the woman says to me before she chews on her lip like she’s trying to soothe her nerves.
“That isn’t acceptable behavior in my bar—or anywhere, for that matter.”
“It happens all the time.”
“I have an older sister. I wouldn’t let someone do that to her, and I won’t let them do it to you.”
Her face softens as she looks at me this time. “You’re a good one.”
“Sometimes,” I tell her.
I try to be a good one, but I’ve had my share of shitty moments where I don’t have the best judgment. I’ve never touched someone when they didn’t want me to, but I didn’t always treat women with the respect they deserved when I was a young dipshit learning how to deal with my hormones.
Tilly and Tate set me straight, though, and whatever lesson I didn’t get through my thick skull, my father made sure I eventually got it.
“Well, thank you. The guy wasn’t getting the hint.”
“He probably never will.”
“Do you think he’ll come back?” she asks.
I draw my eyebrows together, surprised by her question. “Why would he?”
“He left upset, so maybe he’ll be waiting for me when I leave.”
Is this how all women think? Are they always looking over their shoulders, waiting for someone to get them? I can’t imagine living like that. It has to be exhausting.
“I don’t think so. If you wait around long enough, I can guarantee he won’t be out there because he’ll freeze to death.”
“Then I’ll take another,” she says, pushing her nearly empty bottle toward me. “Better safe than sorry.”
I smile as I grab a beer for her, hoping I eased some of the worry she had about the guy hanging around outside the bar. When I hand her the beer, I say, “Smart choice.”
She beams at the two words like she hasn’t received much praise in her life, which only makes me sadder for her than I already was.
I leave her be, figuring she’s had enough from men today. First, being stood up, and second, having a man try to put his hands on her.
Luckily, the fourth quarter goes by in a flash since neither team had any penalties. Chicago won, which has the bar patrons in a good mood as they slowly peel out of the bar to head home to their warm beds.
But the woman from earlier has stayed put. Every time I glanced in her direction, she was looking over her shoulder like the man might appear out of thin air and do something to her.
“How often do you come across a creepy man?” I ask my sister as we’re cleaning up some of the mess since things have slowed down.
“Like, what kind of creep?”
The answer doesn’t sit right with me. “There are different types of creeps?”
“You have verbal creeps, touchy creeps, or the serial-killer-vibe creeps.”
