Reading it has always given me strength, and the stoic heroine is unbreakable.
Unlike me.
There are few people in, just old-timers and a grumpy-looking guy. He is down the end, feeding coins into a jukebox.
I get sick of his depressing song selection, so I ask the barman for some coins.
After walking to the jukebox, I notice coins lined up. As another sad song plays, I figure enough is enough.
“Any chance a lady can hear something upbeat?”
The guy looks up from a fancy crystal glass and nods. I turn to thumb in a coin but pause. “Does that mean I can cut in on you?”
“Correct,” he says, with some fancy accent.
As I lean over the jukebox in my denim skirt, black T-shirt, and white Converse, I see him check out my butt in the window reflection.
He is doing it carefully, but the lighting catches his eyes and chin. He is gorgeous, in his early thirties, and his aristocratic jaw and nose are Roman-like.
He is dressed in a navy suit and a tan colored coat for the cool outside. I have no idea what he’s doing here; the guy is way out of place.
His hair is dark, like his features, and he almost looks Italian model-level.
As I choose the track and am about to turn, thunder rumbles. More rain comes down outside the open back door near us.
Three young jocks run in the front door and loudly shake rain from themselves. They order beers, look my way and smile. Turning away from them, I mind my own business.
The downer-hot grump sits in his booth, watching the three jocks saunter down and casually surround me.
“That your selection playing?” the first asks. I don’t answer, I want to reach my seat. “Is it, honey?”
I smile and try to walk out of their ring of big chests. One moves to block me, and I don’t like it. My eyes catch the grump’s, and we exchange a glance. Like me, he’s likely seen kids like this in bars before.
“Want to dance?” one of the jocks asks.
Grumpy stands slowly, and he speaks low. “Give her some space.” The jock trio turn to him, and he knocks his whisky back in one.
“Or?” the biggest jock says, looking ready for a fight.
“Or one day the universe will teach you some manners.”
“Is she with you?” the second jock asks.
The grump walks towards me, and our eyes connect. “What’s it look like?”
The jocks don’t buy it, and they start to swing, at him fast. The protective grump blocks punches, and he moves like a well-trained soldier.
He is doing his best to shelter me, but it is starting to get out of hand.
Finally, he stops blocking, and to survive the onslaught, he starts to punch back. He punches hard, and he punches fast to protect us both.
Before I know it, I’ve staggered back against the jukebox while the jocks bodies are flying. Two more jocks run in the front door, and they yell loud. The grump reaches for my hand, and I pause. His eyes flick to the open back door, only feet away.
“Had enough?”
I reach for my book and take his hand.
Outside, we run through the rain behind stores. We streak past parked cars, sticking to the shadows.
