Page 34
It takes a lot of concentration to make sure I don’t roll my eyes all the way to the back of my head. “It’s okay, thanks.”
Clearly not getting my cue to fuck the shit off, the man sits down on the opposite side of the booth. “You seemed lonely from up there.” He nods toward the bar. “Thought you might prefer to spend a bit of time with me instead of sulking here all alone.”
I narrow my eyes. Shut up, Char. You’re drunk, and he’s just an asshole. Don’t waste your breath on him. But my mouth opens without my consent. “Is this you flirting?”
He wiggles his eyebrow. Gross. “Maybe. Is it working?”
I snort. “Fuck no.”
His drink stops halfway to his lips. “You shouldn’t be talking to me that way. Not with that gorgeous mouth of yours.”
“Get a good look at it, then.” I stand and lean over the table, making sure my lips are plump as I say, very slowly, “Go fuck yourself, asshole.”
His gaze darts from my mouth to my eyes with the hint of a threat. It’s like he’s finding some twisted pleasure in my rejection. What a sick pervert.
“Do you know who I am?” His voice raises the hair on my arm.
I grab my beer. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
I turn, but the man grabs my wrist and pulls me toward him. I lose my balance and catch myself on the edge of the table. Anger grips me faster than the man can release my arm. With my free hand, I clench my fingers into a fist and land it right in the middle of his pathetic face with as much force as I can muster.
The sound of cracking bones echoes as blood sprays from his nose and runs down his upper lip.
“Fuck!” I cry out, shaking my bruised hand.
“You little bitch,” the greasy man seethes. He tries to extricate himself from the booth, but he’s wedged in. He lunges for me instead, and I ready myself to plant another punch right in his crotch, but a strong arm pins my fist against my side.
“Hey, hey, knock it off!”
I turn my head to see Tom, the bartender, behind me. Two other employees have the asshole restrained.
“All right, get off me!” I demand.
“None of that in my bar,” Tom warns.
“She assaulted me!” the man yells, pointing at me.
I scoff. “Who touched who first, asshole?” My words come out garbled, barely intelligible.
Tom releases me, firmly motioning for me to sit at the bar while the man retrieves his belongings and storms off. “Is there someone who can come pick you up?”
I shake my head.
Tom fills a glass of water and sets it in front of me. “Where are you staying?”
“What makes you so sure I’m not from here?” I slur. My arm hangs heavy on the counter, and my hand throbs like hell.
He shakes his head. “Because I know everybody in this town, and I’d remember a redhead brave enough to punch Oscar like that.”
“Oliver’s,” I mumble, not having enough strength in me to get another word out.
I faintly hear the bartender say, “Ah” before he swipes his phone open.
I really don’t care. I just want to go back to his place and sleep. My head is already pounding against my skull. Tomorrow’s not going to be pretty.
I fold my arms on the sticky counter and rest my head on top, closing my eyes. Maybe in a few hours I’ll be sober enough to walk back to the house. If I remember which way to go. Or I can just stay until morning and wait for someone to point me in the right direction.
Maybe I’ll just lose myself so nobody can find me again.
