"You’re done, Sonny." I wiped the counter around his elbows, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who had survived a thousand Saturday nights. "I’ll call you a cab, and that’s the only thing you’re getting from me."
"C’mon. Just one. For the road." He fumbled for his wallet, nearly sliding off his stool in the process.
"Tell you what. You hand over your keys right now, and I’ll give you one last short pour while I wait for the taxi." I held out my hand, my expression flat. "No keys, no drink. I’m not having your car end up in a ditch on my watch."
He didn't even hesitate, digging a set of Ford keys out of his pocket and dropping them into my palm with a dull clink. I turned to the rail, measured out a meager finger of bourbon, and felt a presence materialize at the service well.
Michael was back, and he was smiling. A real, genuine tilt of the lips that made my pulse skip a beat.
"Anticipating the next round," he said. "I figured if I beat the guys to the punch, they wouldn't have an excuse to start chanting my name again."
"Your dawdling is messing with my delivery times, Landry," I said, sliding Sonny’s drink across the wood without looking at him. "I don't need another reason for Miller to crawl up my ass tonight. I’m already on the bake sale blacklist."
"I’m a slow learner," he countered, his voice light and playful. "Maybe I just like the view from this side of the room."
"Hey! Where’s that cab?" Sonny said, hitting the bar with the flat of his hand. The drink sloshed over the rim. "I’m gonna keep drinking if I have to wait."
"I'm dialing, Sonny. Give it a rest," I called out over my shoulder, keeping my focus on Michael. "So, do the heavy hitters want the same, or are they moving onto the hard stuff?"
"I think they're—"
"Bartender! Hey!" Sonny’s voice rose to a shout. He reached out, his fingers fumbling for the sleeve of my shirt. "I'm talkin' to you!"
"Back off," I snapped, pulling my arm out of reach. "The cab is three minutes out. Sit. Down."
I turned back to Michael to finish the order, but Sonny wasn't finished. He lunged forward, his hand clamping tightly around my forearm, pulling me toward him until my chest hit the edge of the bar. "Don't you turn your back on me when I'm—"
The air in the room didn't just chill over; it froze.
Michael didn't yell. He didn't throw a punch. He simply moved. One second, he was leaning casually on the bar, and the next, his hand was wrapped around Sonny’s wrist. He didn't squeeze, but the sheer physical presence of a two-hundred-pound pro athlete suddenly loomed over the drunk like a mountain.
"Hey, man," Michael said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "You need to chill the fuck out. She told you she's calling a cab. Now, let go of her arm."
Sonny looked up, his booze-clouded brain finally clocking the size of the man looming over him. He let go as if I’d turned into a hot coal.
"I... I was just—"
"You were just leaving," Michael finished on his behalf. He stepped around the end of the bar, his hand landing on Sonny’s shoulder. It looked like a friendly gesture to anyone watching from a distance, but the way Sonny winced told a different story. "Come on. I’ll walk you to the curb. Make sure you don't trip."
I watched them go. Michael didn't hustle him; he talked to him nicely, guiding him through the crowded bar with a calm authority that told everyone in the room exactly where the line was drawn. He was a nice guy, until he wasn't.
A few minutes later, the heavy front door swung shut, and Michael returned, adjusting his jacket. He walked straight back to me, his eyes scanning my face. "You okay? He didn't hurt your arm, did he?"
The concern in his voice was real, but the prickle of my own independence flared up. I wiped a spot on the bar that was already clean, my movements sharp.
"I've been doing this for years, Michael," I said, not looking up. "I can handle a drunk on my own. I don't need a bodyguard."
His face clouded with confusion, but I didn’t stick around to decipher it. I grabbed a fresh tray and walked toward a table of loud college kids at the other end of the floor, leaving him standing at the empty service well.
The night spiraled into the usual blurred rhythm of a post-game rush, but the mechanics of the job couldn't quiet thefrantic inventory running in the back of my mind. The cookies. Gabe’s late submission. The talk we’d had earlier about how many times I’d changed my outfit before coming to work.
Every time I reached for a bottle or swiped a credit card, the phantom pressure of Sonny’s grip on my arm returned. And with it, the memory of Michael’s intervention.
Maybe the "I can handle it" line was a bit too much. He’d done something decent, something most of the guys in this bar wouldn't have bothered with. And I’d rewarded him by marking my territory. But the habit of independence was a hard one to break. I’d spent a lifetime being my own knight, my own shield, and my own cleanup crew. Realizing I didn't need a savior was the only thing that kept me sane when Gabe’s father walked out.
"Next round, Kayla. Keep 'em coming before these guys start eating the coasters." Tucker leaned against the service well, a grin plastered across his face.
I reached for the pitcher, my eyes involuntarily sliding toward the corner booth. Michael was there, but he was deep in conversation with Hunter, his head tilted away from the bar.
