“If you EVER touch my wife again, or even go near her again, I’ll personally press harassment charges. Stay thefuck away from her, and get out of my bar. You are not ever welcome back here,” I seethe.
He stupidly blinks several times in surprise at the revelations that she’s married to me instead of trying to just pick me up for the night, and that this is in fact my bar. It doesn’t take long for his face to contort back into what seems to be his resting asshole look, though.
“It sucks here anyway,” he sneers, shouldering past me and stomping out the door.
I turn to Iggy, who I’m sure clocked the entire interaction while still serving drinks.
“You got a good look at him, right? Send him away if he ever shows his ass in here again,” I say.
Iggy snorts.
“I doubt he’d have the balls to come here again, but yeah. I’ll gladly send him packing.”
My attention goes to Celeste. She looks pissed, and a little shellshocked.
“You ok?” I stroke my hand through her hair, and she relaxes a little.
“Yeah, thanks. He’s just a small man trying to feel big. Nothing new there,” she says on a sigh.
“When did that all happen at the diner? You never told me.”
She flaps a dismissive hand.
“It was weeks and weeks ago, before I moved in. I haven’t really thought about it since. My boss Doreen was nice and had my back, so it was fine. That asshole has been the least of my worries lately, it took me a second to recognize him when I saw him shooting daggers at me,” she says.
“You’ll tell me if anyone gives you trouble now? Please?”
She arches an eyebrow.
“I am more than capable of defending myself, you know.”
Then her face completely softens as she continues.
“It’s pretty nice to not have to be the one doing it for once, though. Yeah, I’ll tell you if stuff like that happens from now on.”
I pull her close again.
“We’ve got each other’s backs, right?” I murmur.
She simply nods against my chest. With one more quick kiss, I get back behind the bar and start pouring drinks with Iggy and one of our newer bartenders. We’re in a groove, dancing around each other and joking with customers when I hear a faint noise behind me in the small stock room just off to the side of the bar, before the office. Is Dad still doing inventory? Once I give the drinks I’m in the middle of making to the couple I’m helping, I hustle back there.
There’s a quiet grunt of pain when I open the door.
“Dad!”
My heart seizes, and my stomach drops when I see him splayed facedown on the floor.
“Dad, what happened? Can you move?” I ask, rushing to his side.
“I dropped my pen because of my damn shaking hands, and when I bent down to pick it up I lost my balance,” he grits out.
“Does it hurt anywhere? Did you hit your head?”
I’m trying so hard to keep my panic at bay, but I’ve never seen my dad lying down in pain like this. He’s always so stoic.
“I fell to the side, right on my hip. That’s what hurts the most.”
“Then I don’t think you should move. Hang tight, ok? I’m going to call an ambulance.”
