Page 67 of Trigger Happy Ending

Several men crane their necks the minute we walk in, causing me to clock all the available exits. A habit, and something I’d do even if this was a posh hotel. Cherry and I slide up to the bar and sit shoulder to shoulder on red vinyl stools, elbows resting on the sticky counter.

It’s gross, but it’s kinda awesome, and so very New York.

The bartender drops two tequila shots in front of us without asking. We clink and down them, our matching friendship bracelets glistening under the low bar lights.

It doesn’t take long for Cherry to launch into a story about the names she’s considering for her flower store. Petals Galore is her favorite (which is a terrible name if you ask me), but she says it’s an ode to her fave James Bond character, Pussy Galore, and who am I to deny her that?

She’s in the middle of describing her vision for the brand, when a meathead loser of a man, in a basketball singlet nonetheless (ew!), leans into my space with about as much subtlety as Conor McGregor in a Miami nightclub.

“Hey,” he slurs, eyes sliding over me like grease. “Can I get you girls a drink?”

I don’t look at him. “No thanks.”

“Not even one?”

“Nope, not even one.”

“That’s not very friendly.”

“Not here to make friends.”

He laughs, a phlegmy sound, like he smokes two packs a day. The tangy odor wafting from his body tells me he hasn’t showered in days. Maybe weeks.

His gaze drops to my chest. “Bet you taste as good as you look.”

“And I bet you fuck as poorly as you smell.”

Cherry stifles a laugh beside me. She’s used to me being mean to men, knows it comes from a good, protective place. I can tell Meathead doesn’t quite know what to do next. The cogs are turning in his puny brain, likely weighing up three options:

Walk away, dignity (somewhat) intact.

Match my energy and start a verbal fight. How dare he be spoken to with such disrespect (!). And by a woman, no less (!!).

Don’t take no for an answer. Fuck consent. Because fuck women.

Like I said, I know men. And I know he’s going for what’s behind door three because their precious little egos can’t handle it when they are told no.

“How much does it cost to find out?”

“Excuse me?”

“What’s your price?”

Fucking hell, this guy thinks we’re prostitutes.

“Walk away.”

He tilts his head, trying to look at my tits, and runs his slimy tongue over his lips. “Bitches like you need men like me.”

He lightly grazes the outside of my arm with his filthy fingers.

Cherry shifts uncomfortably, noticing the shift in my energy because I have gone from on guard to DEFCON 1. And since hearing about how I let Derek slip through my fingers, I’m itching for a fight.

My eyes lock in on him. “You have three seconds to remove your hand from me.”

Instead of listening to my advice, he does the exact opposite and plants a calloused hand on my thigh.

My reaction is instant.