A muscle in Cash’s jaw hardens. I grab his wrist and give it a squeeze. When he looks at me, I shake my head slightly.Don’t.
His nostrils flare. Then he gives me his best no-worries-everything’s-hunky-dory smile. It’s sarcastic, of course. Baseball Cap is one of those drunks. You know the kind I’m talking about? The kind that gets loud and obnoxious and ruins everyone else’s good time?
“I bet you get tons of pussy, don’t you?” Baseball Cap is so close to Jean-Pierre that Jean-Pierre has to lean back to escape his breath. “Chicks love musicians.”
“No pussy for me,cher.” Jean-Pierre winks. “But when it comes to dick, I clean up.”
I snort.Thatwill do it. Baseball Cap will blanch and turn away in three…two—
“You’re a faggot?” Baseball Cap sneers.
Apparently, I underestimated the extent of the man’s douchebaggery.
I open my mouth to tell him to shut his, but Cash beats me to it. “So what if he is? What’s it to you?”
Baseball Cap looks down at Cash on the barstool. “Let me guess. You’re his butt buddy?”
“Hey!” I slap the bar. “Everyone is welcome in here except for racists, sexists, and homophobic assholes. And since I get the feeling you’re all three, you can get the fuck out!”
I usually try not to cuss. I might not be the gracious Southern belle Aunt Bea raised me to be, but I do my best to comport myself with dignity and a smidge of class. However, there are occasions that call for the almighty F-bomb.
This is one of them.
Baseball Cap’s upper lip curls back as his attention focuses on me. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Wrong.” I smile, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. “I own this bar, so I absolutely, positivelycantell you what to do.”
“Bullshit.” He laughs. “You’re too young.”
Normally, that would be true. Not many people my age have the moola to buy a place of business. Then again, not many people my age came into a small fortune thanks to their parents’ life insurance policies.
“Now run along.” He flicks his fingers. “And get me another beer, bitch.”
“That’s it.” Cash stands so abruptly his barstool topples over. Jean-Pierre is right there with him, taking a threatening step toward Baseball Cap.
Cash grabs the guy’s arm to pull him toward the side door, but Baseball Cap is big. Not as tall as Cash, but a lot wider, with that flabby kind of muscle that makes him strong because he can put his weight behind it. He rips his arm out of Cash’s grasp, and I know things are about to go bad even before he rears back with his fist.
My heart goes nuclear. I’m no doctor, but I suspect Cash can’t afford to get hit in the head.
“Hey, buddy! Before you take a swing, there’s something you should know!” I yell.
It’s enough to get the attention of the people around us. They turn away from the stage where Luc, who’s oblivious to what’s happening at the back of the bar, continues to win hearts and minds with his rendition of Bob Dylan’s “Make You Feel My Love.”
Baseball Cap blinks at me blearily.
“This here fella you’re fixing to tangle with?” I say. “He’s a Green Beret. He knows dozens of ways to kill a man.”
Baseball Cap snickers. “Fuck the Green Berets. Bunch of pussies who run around in little French hats.” Then, to my horror, he lets his fist fly.
Thank goodness he’s drunk and his aim is off.
Instead of hitting Cash in the face, his punch lands on Cash’s shoulder. It’s enough to knock Cash back a step or two. But then Cash regains his footing, ducks his head, and barrels toward Baseball Cap, hitting the guy square in the stomach with his shoulder.
His momentum picks Baseball Cap up off his feet and drives him across the bar.
“Cash!” I scream.
Luc finally notices things are no longer peachy keen and stops playing. He stands from the barstool and lifts his hand to shade his eyes against the stage lights.
