Page 12 of The Addict

“Someone’s got an attitude problem.” Chelsea snorted as she reached for another cup, trying—and failing—to be inconspicuous about jerking her head in the direction of the man with the light colored eyes.

I chuckled to try and divert her commentary, but really my focus was still glued to that man. He received his drinks, and without saying a word to the waitress began to chug them down. The two guys that accompanied him said nothing and drank nothing, which I found strange. They merely sat adjacent to him at the table, looking uncomfortable. As for the brunette, he resembled a taut rubber band, as though he may snap at any moment. The more I watched him, the more a knot began to form in the pit of my stomach. His presence caused a tension within the room that I could physically feel. The other patrons in the building didn’t seem to notice. Maybe they were too busy enjoying their buzz.

The man’s head whipped around towards me suddenly, as if he sensed me gawking at him. His eyes captured my gaze directly, a shot so intense that I couldn’t even describe it. I didn’t even know this person, but the cold, ferociousness of his eyes gave off one word:

Danger.

An icy chill ran up my spine, and the knot in my stomach twisted and dug at me, causing me to feel sick. But I couldn’t divert my eyes from his. We sat there, motionless, staring at one another. My heart pounded in my ears. There was something not right about that guy, I just knew it.

“Chelsea,” I said, finally breaking the trance, eyes shifting to the clock above the brass counter near the front of the bar. “It’s nearly two thirty in the morning. Let’s get out of here.”

Chelsea snorted, and gently pushed two little shot glasses that were in front of her forward with her index finger. “No. You. Drink,” she slurred.

I sighed, impatiently.

How do I explain to my best friend that we could be sitting across from the next Jeffrey Dahmer? Or Bundy? I wished that I had stayed home.

“DO YOU WANT ME TO YELL?” Chelsea yelled, pounding her fist against the table, causing some of the drinks to spill over the top of the shot glasses.

I inhaled sharply at the outburst, fidgeting in my seat at the unwanted attention we now received. Even the bar staff stopped to size us up. I took a chance at looking back to the brunette man, and certain enough, his eyes remained on me still. In addition, the other two men at his table were glaring in mine and Chelsea’s direction as well. I smiled awkwardly and lifted my hands up slowly to grasp the overflowing drinks. I was desperate to appease my friend and keep her quiet.

“Please don’t make a scene, Chelsea,” I said through clenched teeth. Chelsea raised an eyebrow and swiped her hand through the air, obliviously to the small audience her tantrum had attracted. “Well?” Chelsea cooed, a little too loudly. I exhaled the breath I had been holding and took her stupid shot.

I nearly retched. What kind of drink was that?

“Yay, tequila!” Chelsea cheered, answering my question.

“Look, I’m drinking them,” I said. “You see?”

At this point, I just wanted everyone to stop staring at us. Chelsea was so embarrassing, and I couldn’t wait to leave and put some distance between us. I made a mental note to never go out with her again, until she apologized for her ridiculous behavior.

Chelsea clapped and continued her alcohol parade. “The other one too, baby!” She demanded, taking three more shots of her own.

I already felt my head spin from the intake. I was not a big drinker. The most alcohol I ever consumed was one, maybe two, glasses of wine in a sitting. Now, I couldn’t even remember how many shots I’d drained to keep this psycho content.

I twitched, my constant uneasiness stemming from the sensation of being watched. The same man was still staring at me when I turned around, his eyes locked on mine once more. A half-empty whisky glass was in his fingers, and for a moment I thought I could be seeing things, but it vanished with a shatter. My eyes widened as glass shards burst out and hit the floor like raindrops striking a roof.

I flinched. The bar grew deadly silent. The liquid that had partially filled his glass began its slow spread across the wood table. The man’s companions hurried to offer him a napkin, though he didn’t seem to care. He was concentrated on the several pieces of glass that protruded from his palm. Small beads of red started to run from two diagonal gashes, and he blinked, twitching only slightly.

My throat tightened with every breath, and I was sure my mouth dropped. The sight of his own blood seemed to captivate him. He seemed completely unfazed by pain.

Seeing my reaction to him, the man sneered. After witnessing his response to my terror, I downed the remainder of my drinks in one draft, feeling the need to be as drunk as Chelsea. I couldn’t quite place it, but something emanated from that man that caused my fight or flight response to activate. I had never experienced this sort of fear before, only heard about it in books or movies. Chelsea cheered me on with a whoop and a fist pump, totally unaware of my distress. I shuddered, desperate to redirect my attention.

“Alright,” a voice from behind the counter shouted. “Last call!”

At the announcement, Chelsea b-lined for the bar, leaving me to sit alone at the table.

I knew for a fact I was going to have to stop her myself from trying to purchase more drinks, so I stood up, a bit unsteady on my feet, and reached into my purse to pull out some cash for our server’s tip. I was about to leave when a waitress waltzed up to the table with a bottle of wine clasped between her hands. “Here you go,” she said, ushering the bottle towards me.

“Oh, no. I didn’t order this,” I tried to explain through my slurring words.

The waitress laughed and handed me the bottle anyway. “No, miss. This was ordered for you.”

My first thought: Damn it, Chelsea. How much more money was that girl going to senselessly spend?

“It was that man over there. He says the color matches your hair.” The waitress chirped giddily, pointing to the pale eyed man. He was laughing with his companions, carefully wrapping his injured hand with a piece of cloth brought to him by the bartender.

Second thought: Shit.