The cruiser rolls west towards Tex’s bar.
It’s going to be a long night.
Chapter 3: Benji
I’m on my second vodka soda when the looks start from the car show table. Four guys in their forties with sunburned faces and matching T-shirts that say Dixie Classic Cruiser’s. They’re on their fourth round and they’ve been glancing at me since I sat down. I’m not worried. I’ve been dealing with this kind of attention since I was twelve.
I slowly take a sip of my drink. One of the guys makes a comment to the others. His head tilts in my direction and he laughs.
Sheila appears with my second drink. When she sets it down, she holds my eye for a half second longer than necessary.
“Sweetie,” she says, her voice low and just for me. “Those boys at that table have been drinking since three o’clock and they’re looking for a reason to start trouble. Don’t give them one.”
I frown at her. “I’m not doing anything, I’m just sitting here, Sheila. Minding my own business.”
“I know what you’re doing, and I know what they’re doing, and I’m telling you to let it go. Finish your drink and I’ll call you a cab. On me.”
She’s not wrong. She’s offering me an exit and it’s a good one. I should take it.
But I don’t take it.
I’ve been dealing with assholes since middle school. I never let a group of men run me off.
The biggest guy from the table gets up to order at the bar. He positions himself next to me, leaning on the bar top, close enough that I catch beer and sour sweat coming off him in waves. He’s about six feet, thick in the middle, baseball cap pulled low. He orders a round for his table and while he waits, he looks at me.
“You lost, sweetheart?”
“Not even a little,” I say. “But thank you for your concern. It’s touching.”
“Seems like you might be more comfortable somewhere else. This is kind of a man’s bar.”
“Well, I’m kind of a man,” I say. “Last time I checked.”
He snorts. “Right.” He takes his beers back to the table and his friends lean in closer. His buddies look at me and the temperature at their table shifts from amused to hostile.
I turn back to my drink. Sheila catches my eye from the other end of the bar. Her look says,I warned you and you still have time.
I take a sip of my vodka soda and straighten my spine. Twenty minutes pass. I order a third drink. The car show table is drinking more, getting louder, doing more of whatever it is that makes men turn mean in packs. One of them catches my eye across the room and makes a kissing face. His friends howl.
I blow him a kiss back because I’m not standing down.
That gets a reaction. The big one says something sharp to the others and they all look at me at once. Four sets of eyes staring me down. They’re not amused anymore.
Sheila’s hand lands on the bar in front of me, palm down. I look up. She leans towards me and her face is steel. “Benji. I’m asking you one more time. Let me call you a cab.”
“Sheila, I’m fine. They’re just…”
“They’re not just anything. I’ve been doing this for thirty years and I know what’s coming. Please. You need to leave.”
I hear her. I really do. I hear the worry in her voice and see the experience in her eyes. I know she’s right. Every survival instinct I have is telling me she’s right.
“I’m not leaving,” I tell her.
Sheila raises her eyebrows at me, blows out a breath and turns away.
I need to use the restroom and know I probably should’ve gone before the third vodka soda. I slide off the stool and head toward the back where a sign says RESTROOMS in letters made out of bottle caps. The hallway is narrow, dimly lit, with one door marked COWBOYS and one marked COWGIRLS. There’s a bulletin board covered in flyers for fishing charters and lost dogs.
I push through the COWBOYS door and hurry to do my business. Before leaving, I check my face in the mirror. Still good. Hair doing its thing. I push the door open.
