Dylan’s eyes flash to the woman, and he gestures to me. “You know this guy?”
Her eyes make a quick scan of my upper body, landing on my face, and she shakes her head softly.
“Do I need to know someone personally for you to show some common decency?”
It could end right here. All he has to do is leave the girl alone, call his driver, and fuck back off to Lower Manhattan.
Instead, he chooses route number two.
My favorite one.
“Okay, pal,” Dylan says, with the kind of passive aggressiveness that tells me no one has ever taught him manners. He thinks money means you don’t need it.
When I smirk, he eyes me more closely, like he’s looking for proof I won’t fuck him up. Maybe he mistakes my tattoos for some sort of hipster fuck like he’s probably friends with, who never shuts up about his favorite matcha or riding his unicycle.
My tattoos come from a different sort of lifestyle.
Where I come from, we love the chance to teach some respect. Predators like him who end up behind bars learn a lot about respect from guys like me. Just doing my part to spread the word in the free world, sort of like an outreach program.
Keeping my gaze locked on him, one hand reaches out to the bar top to grasp the empty rocks glass he left there. Dylan follows the motion, watching uneasily as I close my hand around the glass until it breaks with acrackthat’s muffled by my palm and the noise of the other patrons.
The jump he gives when it shatters into large pieces is fucking delicious. An appetizer for the main course. Really whets the appetite.
“What the fuck, man?” he asks, panic leaking into his voice now. When he looks back at me, the confusion on his face turns to fear, and I smile back at him.
“I want you to remember topay attention,” I tell him, commanding his focus to stay on me with every syllable.
My left hand, the one holding the large chunks of glass, pulls back in and I wrap all five fingers and my palm around his upper arm, pressing the shards into his flesh until I feel it give.
He starts to scream, but it quickly melts into a whimper when I only grip him harder the more he struggles.
“Pay attention to how your partner reacts to you,” I tell him.
The glass cuts into his arm further, and I feel the wet warmth of blood trickling down my palm.
Dylan slams his eyes shut, squeezing them tight, whimpering.
“It’s not nice when someone can’t take a hint, is it?” I ask, voice pitched low so only he—and maybe she—can hear me. “When you don’t want someone to touch your body, but they won’t get the message?”
He shakes his head from side to side, and I release some pressure on his arm. More blood runs down us both.
“Are you going to stop making women uncomfortable?”
He nods, eyes still pinched shut.
“Okay then.” I release his arm, and he sucks in a large gasp of air, immediately looking down to his limb and moaning at what he sees.
With a toothy grin, I tell him, “That’s all I wanted, Dylan.”
He scowls at me, face pale as he looks back down to pick out some pieces of glass still sticking out of his flesh.
“Let’s make sure the message really sticks,” I whisper.
And then I pour a good finger of my remaining tequila over the damage.
This time, he can’t hold back the scream, but it sounds like dessert to me.
Grabbing a napkin from the bar, I pour the last drops of my drink over my left palm, hoping to sterilize any cuts I might’ve gotten, before dabbing it with a napkin and turning to head out.
