“Regardless,” I brush him off. “Pay first.”
Part of me already knows there isn’t a sentence in the English language long enough to stop these fuckers from escalating. If words were that powerful, I’d be president by now, delivering policy reforms with a smile and a wink instead of contemplating how far I can shove a bar stool up someone’s colon.
Still, I tried.
For Rhea.
“Are you deaf or something?” he sneers. “I said there’s a score to be settled.”
The other two laugh, low and ugly. He leans in.
Anger prickles under my arms. Under my ribs. Undereverything.
This night was supposed to be a reprieve. A couple hours of pretending the world outside didn’t exist, of letting Rhea stack glasses behind the counter, and feeling okay about myself.
Instead, I’m here dealing with these motherfuckers.
I slam the pint down harder than intended. Foam jumps the rim and dribbles over my knuckles. I cock a brow. Smile. I have two smiles: the one for the girls, and the one that makes people realize they should’ve walked away five minutes ago. He’s getting the latter one.
“Rey’s such a petty bitch that he’s still crying about arace?” I ask, voice all innocence and sunshine. “That’s the terrifying brand you boys rep? Mascot of the sore-loser championships?”
Rhea’s eyes flash toward me, glossy with panic, like she wants to gasp but her lungs are frozen.
But I’m not going to cower, apologize, or tuck tail and slink out the back door. I didn’t even do much to Rey, not really. Just existed in the wrong orbit with the wrong crowd. The only crime I ever committed against him was proximity. Meanwhile his boys? Once killed my girl with smiles on.
The guy’s smirk stretches thin. His two goons shift: one elbows the jukebox until it chokes out a skip in the music, the other leans far too close to Rhea.
The grin curdles into a snarl.
“You’ve got a mouth on you,” he says. “Talking about Rey like that in his own fucking backyard? You suicidal, pretty boy?”
The whole bar stills.
Regulars peel off their stools, muttering excuses about smoke breaks, cigarettes, wives waiting at home. One by one, they file toward the door. By the time the hinges squeal shut, it’s just me, Rhea, and three of Rey’s hyenas.
The one straddling the chair slaps his palm against the backrest. “Rey’s name don’t belong in your mouth. Say it again and we’ll carve it out.”
Rhea flinches. She’s terrified now. I wish I could say something to her out loud, but I can’t. So I just meet her gaze and send the message silently.
Go.
Save yourself.
I can handle this.
I fold back in my chair, lazy posture, like all this is nothing for me.
“Boys,” I sigh, bored. “You’re really fucking loony. All three of you.”
And just like that,boom, fuse hits powder.
Chair-straddler rockets upright so violently his chair goes flying backward like it personally offended him. It skids, slams into the bar, and makes Rhea jump.
“The fuck you say?” he growls.
Jukebox guy’s already stomping toward me, shoulders forward, fists twitching like his neurons get dopamine only from assault charges. The third one peels off Rhea at last, grin fading to something sharp and feral.
“You just signed your death warrant,” tall one spits.
