“How ’bout you let me show you my man skills?” He snakes out his hand, trying to grab my waist, but I quickly side step.
“Are you going to place an order? Because I’m moving on.” I look him square in the eyes. The busboy passes by and I dump the empty pitchers in his bin, freeing my hands.
“Yeah, Rolling Rock, draft,” he says. His lips press into a thin line.
“OK, Sara will have those to you soon and will take your food order then.” I walk one step away and the stupid fuck slaps my ass with a fat hand. He ends the slap with a full-handed cupping of my butt cheek and a squeeze. I swivel on my heel. McRae is glaring and starting to get out of the booth when I catch his eye and wave him off. He hesitates a second before slowly sitting down, his fist clenched at his side.
I plant my hands on the table and lean toward Mr. Grabby. Conversation around us stops. Guys like this lout are the sort of drunk whose creepiness and pervy ways come out the more they drink.
“You think it’s OK to put your hands on me?” I ask. Some people shouldn’t drink. Ever. Yet, I don’t care how much he’s had to drink. Manhandling someone is not OK.
“Honey, you know you wanted it, and you want me to do a whole lot more.” He reaches out, cups my breasts between both his hands, and leans toward me, in what I presume is an attempt to place his head in my cleavage. To motorboat.
If I was angry before with the ass cupping, this sends me over the edge. Feeling at the mercy of another person is a button I no longer stomach being pushed. I’ve long since replaced the accustomed fear with anger and control.
Snatching his hair at the scalp with both my hands, I pull his head up. When he’s looking at me, smirking, I snake my right hand out to grab his left, placing mine over the back of his hand to pull it from my breast. I position my thumb so that I’m pressing his back, resulting in his wrist and thumb being at an awkward angle.
“Stand up,” I say and twist his arm, forcing him to get out of the booth.
“Let go of my hand, you stupid bitch,” he snarls and leans toward me. Three moves. Ears, head, groin.
“Apologize.” I give him one chance. Three seconds, five max, and this fuck stick will be writhing on the floor.
“I said to let go.” He does a mock lunge toward me and the training I received in Texas kicks in.
In a flash, I drop his hand but grab his ears and twist, bringing his head forward. He cries out in a mixture of surprise and fury, and I use the shock to my advantage as I slam his face into my knee, busting his nose. He calls me a name so vile it’s sheer instinct that drives my foot to connect with his crotch.
All the men in the room groan, reflexively covering their dicks. The jackass is down, on the floor writhing and calling me a stream of names I haven’t ever heard used in mixed company.
I lean forward and whisper, “Want to stick your face in my chest? Perhaps you should ask next time. Touch another woman like that when I’m around and I’ll break your dick.”
When I straighten up my eyes meet McRae’s. He’s half out of his booth ready to be a white knight, my Sir Lancelot, but I ease his duty toward chivalry by squeezing his forearm in silent thanks as I walk by.
Yes, it felt good to take down that clown, but the second after I did it, I was mentally calculating the consequences of my actions. Knowing they could result in a lawsuit for both my employers and myself. I’m well aware that I may just have royally screwed the pooch.
Five
Two things I can’t stop ruminating.
First, how fortunate I was with the bar incident. It was no surprise that the idiot had a prior record for assault, which trumped my actions. So when given the choice, neither of us pressed charges and he walked away with an ice pack on his nose while blubbering and swearing to keep his hands to himself from here on out.
Second, I think I need to return the new cashmere throw I bought. The one I simply had to have even though it was beyond expensive and a luxury I haven’t allowed these last two years and is the exact same color as McRae’s eyes. A lovely shade of freshly sliced avocado and mojito mixed. Every time I look at it, I think of him. I re-experience the zing of pleasure I got when I leaned across him, and I want nothing more than for him to touch me. On all my girly parts. More than once. Until my body is numb from intense satisfaction.
It’s insane how charged the air was between us. The epitome of instant attraction, I suppose. I bury the blanket under the pillows I bought and return to my task. Hoping it’ll provide the distraction I need. Besides, he’d likely show up for sex with schematics and a time limit.
With the Sunday paper spread around me, I sip my coffee and try to ignore my phone. Refreshing my email app will not make one from Will appear. No matter how badly I want one to. We had a good email exchange there for a few days. Mostly me telling him about finding a place in Daytona and getting a job, trying to draw out any tidbit he might give me to indicate where he lives.
Who am I kidding? It was four years of email exchanges before he dropped the Florida hint, so chances are awfully slim I’ll get another clue anytime soon. I’ll be old and gray before I get the chance to reconnect with my brother.
Frustrated with the truth in my thoughts, I push my phone away and peruse the want ads. If I keep thinking like that, it’ll do nothing but bring me down, send me into a wasteland of confusion, anger, and hurt. Instead, I focus on what I can control.
I like my bartending job, but I also like eating and considering tips are what carries my pay and the rent on this apartment is higher than I planned on paying, I’ll be getting a second job. I figure something administrative will help me keep up my computer skills. I spot an ad with bolded letters ADMIN ASSISTANT NEEDED. Like a beacon in the night, it seems this was meant for me. Providing little information other than requiring standard computer and people skills, the ad’s phrase “organizational genius,” a skill I possess in spades, makes me commit the address to memory with a plan to visit first thing tomorrow.
Without giving it further thought, knowing I’d talk myself out of it, I take a chance and email Will to ask if he wants to meet up sometime. I include my new address. One thing I’ve learned, to press him is to shove him away, but I miss my brother desperately. The only way I can live with not ever seeing him again is knowing I tried everything, and I hope the tone of the email is light and non-threatening enough that he doesn’t feel put off. Not that I know what put him off in the first place.
I hit send and toss my phone at the couch. It hurts to know he doesn’t want to see me as much as I do him.
Frustrated, I decide to take Mrs. Cramer up on her offer to use one of her bicycles to explore my new neighborhood and get in some much needed exercise. It’ll help clear my head. The Florida sun, the sea breeze, a day off from the bar, and exercise, it’s the perfect combination. Tomorrow, it’s back to the grind of Internet searching for Will and stopping in about that job.
Under my T-shirt and shorts, I wear my bikini. In the bike’s basket, I pack a bag that includes a paperback, water, sunscreen, a towel, my cell, and granola. The path I’ve plotted makes my trip to the beach a mile, which isn’t much, but today is about relaxing more than making my exercise quota. I start out at a slow pace but that feels like cheating so I step it up. Rising, I pedal fast to a count of thirty before I sit and do another thirty count, rest for fifteen count and start the cycle over.