“Your handshake. When you greeted this young lady.” I gesture at Presley, who is frozen behind the bar with an expression of horror on her face. “A real handshake, a proper one, should be firm and confident, with full palm contact. What you did was more of a finger-squeeze kind of thing, and it is dismissive and, frankly, somewhat insulting.”
The bar has gone quiet around us. I am vaguely aware of people turning to watch, but I’m committed now.
“Here,” I say, extending my hand. “Let me demonstrate the correct technique. You want to make sure your palms meet fully, then apply even pressure. Not too hard, not too soft. Two or three pumps, and then release.”
The biker looks at my extended hand like I am offering him a live snake. Although I get the feeling he probably owns snakes or some other dangerous creature.
“Lady,” he says slowly, “you’re trying to tell me how to shake hands?”
“I am offering instruction, yes. A good handshake is the foundation of?—”
“I don’t need some prissy city princess telling me how to shake hands.”
“Well, I am not prissy. I am a professional. Proper etiquette is not about being prissy, it is about showing respect for?—”
“You want to talk about respect?” He steps closer, and suddenly he is very large and very angry, and I am realizing I might have made a significant tactical error. “How about you show some respect by minding your own dang business?”
“I was just trying to?—”
“Trying to what? Make me look stupid in front of everyone?”
His voice is rising now, drawing more attention.
“You come in here with your fancy clothes and your fancy attitude, acting like you’re better than everyone.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“Hey!” The voice is calm, authoritative, and familiar. Wyatt appears beside me, placing himself slightly between me and the biker. “What’s going on here?”
“Your new boss lady’s trying to teach me manners,” the man snarls, “like I’m some kind of child.”
Wyatt’s expression does not change, but I see something in his eyes.
“Oh, is that so?”
“I was just explaining proper handshake technique,” I say.
Even as the words leave my mouth, I hear how ridiculous they sound.
“He was— well, I mean, the way he shook Presley’s hand was?—”
“Eleanor.” Wyatt’s voice is quiet but firm. “Why don’t you go wait in the office? I’ll handle this.”
“But—”
“Office. Now.”
It is not a suggestion.
I open my mouth to argue with him, but something in his expression stops me. He’s not angry, or if he is, he is hiding it really well, but he is definitely serious.
I go.
The office is very quiet, and the silence feels like judgment.
I sink into the chair behind the desk. Mavis’s chair, I suppose, though it does not feel like mine. I rest my head in my hands.
The adrenaline of the night is fading, leaving a hollow feeling of shame.
