The tumbler slips from my fingers but lands on the counter, saving me from picking up any broken glass.
Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Of course, he knows Shorty. Of course, Shorty would have something to do with a random stranger approaching me. Of course, he’d find a way to mess with my brain even when he’s hundreds of miles away.
Picking the tumbler up again, I squeeze it in my palm. I’m surprised it doesn’t break from the pressure as I try to figure out how to end this conversation as quickly as possible without offending the asshole or making things worse. Okay, I don’t actually care about offending the guy, but causing a scene and giving Rhodes more work than he bargained for isn’t on my to-do list. Which means I need to tread lightly.
Tread. Lightly, I remind myself.
“That’s nice,” I tell Darryl, then give him my back.
“Yeah. I’ve known him for a while now,” he calls out.
Annoyance simmers beneath my skin as I face him again. “Doesn’t Shorty live in Ohio now?”
“Sure does. I do too.”
“Good for you.” My sarcasm is thick, but I don’t bother to hide it because when it comes to Shorty? Well, it’s never good, and I’ve learned to steer clear.
“Yeah. I sell pest control, so I travel all the time,” Darryl continues.
“Cool.” I fill the glass I’d been throttling with Diet Mountain Dew and vodka, remembering the order I’m supposed to be preparing for the leggy blonde on the opposite end of the bar top.
Oblivious, Darryl adds, “Yeah. When he found out I was coming here, he told me I should stop by.”
“How nice of him.”
“Yeah. He’s a good dude.”
Sure, he is.
“Mm-hmm.” I start to walk away, but he keeps going.
“Said you like it rough.”
The last of my restraint fizzles, and I set the glass on the counter, my head cocked. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah. Said you like it rough, and for fifty bucks, you’d be willing to suck my dick.”
My jaw drops, and my brain attempts to catch up with the screwed-up turn this conversation has taken, but I’m lost.
Did Shorty really send him here to say that to me?
It’s been almost two years since we broke up. He signed with the Tumblers after graduation, and I haven’t seen him since. Not physically, anyway. I’ve seen him splashed across the media with different girls on his arm more times than I can count. He’s never personally reached out, yet he still finds a way to be an ass any chance he gets.
Ya know, like tonight.
Honestly, it makes me want to neuter him.
“So what do you say?” Darryl pushes. He digs into his wallet and slides a crumpled-up fifty onto the counter. It looks like it might disintegrate at any second. “Should we go out back or––”
I splash the vodka and soda into his face, and he nearly falls off his barstool. “What the fuck?”
“That was for you being an ass,” I spit. “Now, leave.”
He lunges for me, reaching across the bar, but he’s tugged back and slammed onto the seat.
“I’m going to need you to apologize,” a low voice growls. The sound makes my stomach tighten, and my attention snaps to Buchanan a few feet away.
When did he get here? And how much did he overhear?
Embarrassment floods every inch of my body as I murmur, “Professor––”
“Not now.” His voice is dark and thick with full-blown rage as he tightens his hold on the back of Darryl’s neck, forcing him to his feet.
“Whoa.” Darryl wipes the sticky drink from his face and raises his hands in defense. “You her pimp or somethin’? Look, I’ll give you another fifty––”
“She is not a prostitute,” Henry spits. “Now, apologize and get the hell out of here.”
“Fuck you, man. I’m not leavin’ until I get my dick––”
With Henry’s grip full of Darryl’s worn flannel shirt, he punches him in the stomach. Darryl’s body sandwiches in half from the impact. The air whooshes from his lungs as Darryl blindly reaches for his beer bottle on the counter. Henry stands above him, assuming he’s made his point.
The movement happens so fast, I’m not even sure what I’m witnessing. “Henry!” I yell in warning.
The asshole is too quick. He slams the bottle against Henry’s head. The thud makes my stomach roll, but Buchanan recovers quickly, ramming his fist into the stranger’s nose, cocking his arm back for another hit when SeaBird’s bouncer shoves himself between Henry and Shorty’s friend.
“What the fuck is going on?” Rhodes shouts while the rest of the customers create a half-circle around the chaos, giving themselves front-row seats. After all, it’s not every day they witness a bar fight. And when the bartender is the cause of said fight?
Yeah. It’s a real treat.
Rhodes, however, looks like he’s about to throw Buchanan and Darryl over his shoulders for causing such a scene, and I can’t let Henry take the fall for it. Not when it’s my fault in the first place.
“Stop!” I yell, pointing at Henry. “This guy did nothing wrong.” My gaze shoots to Darryl. “That guy, however, is banned for life.”
With a nod, Rhodes lets Buchanan go and grabs Shorty’s friend beneath his armpits. He drags him toward the exit like a sack of potatoes and tosses him outside onto his ass.
The silence following is palpable.
I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. Watching me. The shitshow. The aftermath. Everything. But I hardly notice. Because a cut above Buchanan’s left brow from the glass bottle he’d taken to the head looks gnarly. Blood trickles down the side of his face, framing his dark eyes, and drips off his chin onto his white button-up shirt, staining the crisp material.
He’s hurt.
And it’s all my fault.
A clean dish towel hangs beneath the counter, and I grab it, rounding the edge of the bar. I press the white cloth to Buchanan's wound before he has the chance to let self-preservation sink in and leave. Henry hisses softly, but he doesn’t pull away as I seep up some of the blood with the towel.
There are so many things I want to say.
I’m sorry. I can take care of myself. Thank you. Why are you here?
The list is endless, but none of them feel right. None of them fit. But the silence? It’s even more grating. More unbearable. And I’m not sure I can take another second of it.
“Come on,” I murmur. “Let’s get you taken care of.”
19
MIA
There are too many eyes out here. Too much attention. It makes me squirm as I continue pressing the white cloth to the cut above Buchanan’s eye.
“I’m fine,” he grunts.
“Will you listen for once?” I finally steal the courage to look him in the eye while avoiding the curious stares around us. “I’m trying to help you.”
I can see the indecision in his gaze. The stubbornness. But surprisingly, he gives in and follows me down the hall and into the breakroom.
It’s nothing but a small square room with a fridge, a small set of lockers, a few cabinets lining the wall, and a folding table in the center. It’s quiet here. And away from curious stares. Which is exactly what we need.