The bartender flashes me awide, white smile."I'm sure you can," he replies, but I can tellhe's just humoring me, "but maybe let's throw in a glass of waterbefore your next, huh?It's on the house," he jokes.
I force a halfheartedsmile and grumble a cursory "thanks".Somewhere in my fuming, fuzzymind I know he's just being responsible and kind, but I can't helpbut feel like he's mocking me.Like I'm just a stupid little girlwho can't handle her liquor, who doesn't belong.
The shrill, tinny voice ofthe girl who obviously has her slutty, hot-girl sights on Sam couldprobably be heard by dogs blocks away."I bet I know how to cheeryou up," she says, her words crawling with suggestion.She doesn'teven bother being coy.She just serves herself up to him.Not thatI can really blame her.
At least I know that Samis better than all of this.A guy like him doesn't have to settlefor some easy girl coming onto him like a skanky predator.He couldhave any girl in the bar, in any bar really.
And then Sam's voice ringsout again over the din."I don't know, honey, it'd be a lot ofwork, I don't know if you're up for it."But there's a challenge inhis words.He isn't discouraging her—he's doing the exactopposite.
And it's more than I cantake.
What kind of insensitiveasshole is he?!He knows I'm right here!He knows how I feel abouthim!
SurelyCaphas no trouble getting laid, sowhy the fuck can't he wait until the girl who is utterlyheartbroken over him isn't standing within fuckingearshot?!
I'm vaguely aware of Carland Tina exchanging a nervous glance and it reminds me that I'm notexactly being coy either, what with my deep scowl and the steamthat is probably shooting out of my freaking ears.
"Oh I'm up for it, and I'mpretty sure I can get you, um,upfor it," the shrill, slutty, voicereplies.
I cringe.
But Sam chuckles.Fuckingchuckles!And it'smychuckle--the one he used to givemewhen I said something he foundcute or funny.
I actually, literally,growl.
I've covered the spacebetween the bar and their table without ever having made aconscious decision to confront him.I'm only vaguely aware that allsix pairs of eyes are on me as my own eyes shoot daggers at thesource of my pain.
Sam.
"If you're gonna gofuck her, then just go fuck her already!"My voice is a bitterscreech that I barely even recognize.The shocked expression onSam's face quickly morphs to consternation, but I can't stop mywords."Does the whole fucking bar have to listen to you spittin'your stupid fucking game?!"I accuse.
"What the fuck do youcare?"Sam replies, visibly working to keep his cool.But he wasalready pissed at me, he has been for weeks, so his tone doesn'tsurprise me.His words, however, make no sense at all.Because hedidn't tell me to mind my own business or to get lost.He askedwhat I care about it, and that makes zero fucking sense, because heknows very well why I care, so I can't understand his choice ofwords.But instead of asking about them, or actually answering hisquestion, I opt for the least mature route possible.
"No one wants to listen toyou flirtin' your ass off with some stupid slut!Get a fuckin'room!"My accent is just out of fucking control, but I am drunk,and my words flood out before I can muster the focus to controlthem, or the accent flowing through them.
The hot-girl slut huffsindignantly, and out of the corner of my Sam-tunnel-vision I cantell she's glaring at him, willing him to defend her, and vaguely Iwonder if he will.The thought terrifies me.Because as hard as itis to hear his flirting, I don't think I could physically handlehim actually defending another girl to me.My heart couldn't takethat.
Sam's eyes are glazed, halfhooded in their boozy haze, and I've never seen him drunk like thisbefore.He can barely hold his head up straight.Or maybe it's myown intoxicated vision that makes him appear so wobbly.It'sprobably a combination of both.And one thing is certain—it's a badcombination.
"If we want to get a room,we'll get a fucking room," Sam's voice is laced with hostility, butit's like his words have nothing to do with the girl included inthewe.Likeshe's not even there.He's glaring at me.Glaringintome.As if he cansee that his words have sliced open my chest and laid bare mybroken, bloody heart for all to see.
My mouth opens to spewsome biting retort, but whatever my words were meant to be, theydon't come.I choke on them instead, and finally register Carl'sgrip around my wrist, her other hand gentling my shoulder, urgingme to retreat.
"Rory…" Carl's tone says itall.That I am embarrassing myself.That at some point, when thealcohol wears off, and the cold light of day shines it'sunforgiving light on tonight's confrontation, I will regret thisdearly.
The last thing I want todo right now is back off.To retreat and let Sam and his slut getback to doing whatever it is they were going to do.My instinctstell me to prevent it in any way humanly possible.But I know I amdrunk, and I make the choice to trust the judgment of my soberfriend.
With the rush of my deepexhale, Carl senses me waver and firms her grip marginally, and themoment I register the moisture in my eyes, I give in.I allow Carlto tug me away from the source of the drama and into the bathroom,painfully aware of the muttered expletives and heated exchangesleft in my wake.
Carl, Tina, and Lily watchme warily in the bathroom as I try to catch my breath, and myconfused vodka-brain tries to work out if I'm more angry or upset.The truth is I am a dangerous mixture of both.
"You're going to regretthat tomorrow," Carl warns me."What were you thinking,Rory?"
But Tina answers for me."She was thinking that that whore was hitting on Cap five feet awayfrom her,duh."
Carl is the only soberone, and she's outnumbered.None of us are interested in the voiceof reason right now.We're running on booze and emotion instead, memost of all.
"Well two can play thatgame, right?That super hot bartender has been staring at Rory allnight," Lily says conspiratorially.
