Sad news for me, there’s not a lot more fun to be had in my day. Not throughout the rest of my slot at the bodega, not even during my night shift as junior chef at the New American eatery I hear the douchey slimeballs who come up from Wall Street for a good time callthe next Barbuto.
Pricks wouldn’t know what’s up and coming if they took two too many Viagra and it was staring them in the face. They just come to drop stacks and try to lure women out of their league with cash and name dropping the firms they work for.
It’s not until I’m unwinding, sometime past midnight, at a bar that wasn’t even on Lexington last week, that I spot an opportunity for some fun of my own.
A beautiful woman, slim, in a black, skintight dress, with her back pressed to the bar, glass of white wine in hand.
She’s not the fun.
The guy boxing her in, the reason her face looks so uncomfortable,that’slooking like a good time.
Something purrs in my chest, morphing into a rumble of a growl as I watch one of thestronzosI saw at table 72 earlier this evening—the one in pressed khakis, whose foie gras was “off”and needed his meal comped for his trouble (though he ate the entire plate,andthe second one we brought to replace the first one)—not take a fucking hint.
Nose pressed to the woman’s neck, he runs it up to her ear, even when she pulls her head back, trying to get away from him.
You don’t have to have an English degree to read her body language. It’s screaming at him to fuck off, but he isn’t listening.
Me and my glass of tequila are across the bar, one eyebrow raised as I watch, so I can’t make out what words are being exchanged, but I recognize scum when I see it. I was around it for the first twenty-one years of my life.
I take in the strangers’ interaction for just long enough to give her the chance to knee him in the balls, throw her drink in his face, gouge her nails through his flesh, anything to get him away from her.
Instead, she goes for subtle. Looks of annoyance, twitches, shrugging off his touches.
This loafer-wearingcoglionedoesn’t speak subtle.
Lucky for him, I can be loud and fucking clear.
Taking another slow draw from my silver tequila (neat, so I can feel the burn the way God intended), I unfold from the barstool and take steady steps toward them.
The monster doesn’t have safety instincts, the kind honed when you grow up in a life like I did. Clearly, or he’d feel the threat at his back.
Instead, he pushes on, trying to prey on someone he assumes is even weaker than he is. His body flush against hers, one hand sneaking back behind her body, beneath the bar, intent on taking what he wants.
Strolling by him, my hip knocks into him. Would’ve used my shoulder, if he was tall enough I could reach him with it. But I’m a survivor. I adapt.
He stumbles over, catching himself on the bar, complaining loudly. “Hey! Pay attention, dick.” Judging from the waft of his breath that makes it to me, that’s gotta be his eighth scotch of the night.
I was right. This guy is acoglione. Loafers, khakis, and a short-sleeved sweater the color of expired mayo, with a zipper over his chest for some reason.
“My thoughts exactly,” I purr, chest vibrating either from the words, or the thought of what comes next.
Hestilldoesn’t pick up the danger in the room, and keeps his back to me.
“Brayden?” I ask, and the creep who never learned consent finally turns around.
“No, Dylan.”
“Close enough.”
“Yo, what’s your—” Dylan’s blurred out eyes have finally caught up with the rest of him and they land on my pecs beneath a casual button-down shirt I changed into after my last shift.
“Problem?” I finish his sentence, then indulge in another slow sip, relishing in the fire it brings.
The woman steps back from him, taking her chance to put some distance between them.
“No problem, man, mind your own business.” Dylan holds up his hands, taking a half a step back and nearly stumbling.
“I was minding my own business,” I tell him, leaning my head to one side. “Until you couldn’t respect this young lady’s wishes.”
