Maybe if I give him a few more shots, I can get him drunk enough to take him home and get him into bed to sleep it off. I figure I can check up on him again after my meeting. That's what I'm going to do. I hope that doesn't make me a complete shitheel.
Raised voices further down the bar draw my attention. The Rose isn't a place where you're going to see a lot of barfights – the clientele is usually more sedate and staid than that. So, when I hear the angry voices, I get a bad feeling that Trey is somehow involved, given his current state of mind and level of intoxication.
Turning to look, I'm not surprised to see him standing in front of a couple of guys – guys I've never seen in here before. Big and rugged, they look like they just stepped off a construction site. Trey isn't a small guy, but these two are a lot bigger than he is. Trey is hammered, which means he's going to be running his mouth more than usual because he's probably feeling fucking bulletproof right now.
Jumping off my stool, I rush down to where they are standing, nearly nose-to-nose. The tension and anger are thick in the air, as is the unspoken threat of violence. It's a heavy and oppressive feeling – much like the air just before a thunderstorm splits the sky open.
I step over and put a hand on Trey's chest, giving him a gentle, but firm push backward, before stepping in front of him and facing the two men. Dressed in jeans, t-shirts, and flannels, their work boots dirty and scuffed, I'm probably right about them being construction workers. Given that this place is usually host to attorneys, accountants, and other white-collar kind of professionals, these two are not the typical clientele at the Rose.
Mixed in with a crowd of people in designer suits – suits that probably cost more than they bring home in a month – they stand out like a sore thumb, truth be told.
“What's the problem here?” I ask.
“Your boyfriend here bumped into us,” the first man says. “Made me spill my goddamn drink.”
He's half a foot shorter than I am, but thicker through the shoulders and chest, and has arms as big around as my thigh. He's got dark eyes, a cleanly shaved head, and a thick, dark goatee shot through with gray. The other man is younger and is about the same height as the first guy, but has dirty blond hair that hangs to his shoulders. It looks greasy, like it hasn't been washed in weeks. He's got a full beard, blue eyes, but isn't nearly as big as his buddy.
“You'll have to excuse him,” I say. “He's had a tough day and has had a little too much to drink.”
“I don't give a fuck what his problem is,” the first guy says, puffing up his chest while staring daggers at me.
I sigh, physically trying to keep my temper from boiling up and over. The last thing I want is to get into a fight with these two clowns. I'm not as bulky as they are – I was a swimmer in college, so I'm leaner and toned, rather than bulky. But, I took Jiu-Jitsu lessons for years when I was younger and know how to take care of myself. I'm not intimidated by these two clowns in the least.
“Look,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice even. “Let me buy you two a round and let's call it a night.”
“Not until your boyfriend apologizes to Ray here,” the second man says.
I let out a long breath, doing my best to remain patient. Cutting a glance around, I see the other patrons paying attention to what's going on. Some look annoyed and others fascinated by the potential for bloodshed. I really don't want to bring this kind of bullshit into the Rose. Darius, the owner, is a friend of mine. And he takes great pains to make sure he provides a safe, mellow atmosphere in his bar. That's something I don't want to fuck up.
Trey is standing behind me and muttering something about kicking their asses. I raise my foot and stomp down on his, drawing a pained yelp from him. Things are already tense enough without him inserting his drunk-ass bravado into the mix.
“He's drunk. It was an accident –”
“Then it shouldn't be too much trouble for this bitch to apologize,” snaps baldy.
Trey starts to say something – something I know is only going to inflame the situation further – so I drive my elbow into his gut. He groans and doubles over, letting out a whoosh of breath. I hear him behind me struggling to catch it again.
“He's sorry,” I say. “If he were sober, he'd say as much. There, happy?”
The second man laughs and nudges his friend in the ribs. “Can you believe these two homos, man?”
The anger within me surges and then breaks through the mental dams I've been holding it back with. The temper is a feature of the Anderson family clan and is something I've struggled with my whole life. That lightning fast, quicksilver temper is in our genes. My brothers have always been good about keeping it in check, but it's a struggle for me.
I do a good job of containing it most of the time, but when assholes like these two push me, it becomes almost impossible to keep the monster in its cage.
I stand up straighter, staring the bald one in the eye. “You and your boyfriend here,” I say through gritted teeth, “are going to walk the fuck out of this bar right now.”
Baldy steps closer to me, puffing up his chest, thinking he can intimidate me with his sheer size. I stare into his face, feeling an amused smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. I don't want to fight, but that doesn't mean I'm afraid to.
“That so?” baldy asks.
I stare down at the man through narrowed eyes. “Not only that,” I say, my voice low, “you and your boyfriend here are never going to set foot in here again. Trash like you doesn't belong in a place like this.”
“Who the fuck you callin' trash?” the second man growls.
“Pretty sure he just called us trash,” baldy says, staring at me with a feral smile, as if he's looking forward to getting into a fight.
“You're not as dumb as you look,” I say. “Congratulations. Now, get the fuck out of here.”
“Fuck you,” baldy snaps.
“Such cutting wit,” I say dryly. “I'm sure you make all the folks down at MENSA laugh their asses off.”
Trey, having finally caught his breath, says something completely unintelligible that makes the two men in front of me howl with laughter. I turn quickly and shove him into the booth behind him. He sits down and then falls onto his back on the seat, obviously having no idea where he is or how he got there. I turn back to the two men, the anger burning bright within me.
“We're done here,” I say. “Get the fuck out. Now.”
The air in the bar is silent and still, the atmosphere electric and humming with anticipation – the proverbial calm before the storm. No one speaks and although the other customers are all trying to pretend they're not looking at us, they can't help themselves and make it completely obvious they're watching closely.
“Yeah, I don't think that's gonna happen,” baldy says. “We came in here for a drink –”
“There's another bar right down the street,” I say, looking them up and down dismissively. “I think they're better equipped to deal with – your kind.”
“My kind?” baldy snaps.
“Yeah, what the fuck's that supposed to mean?” the second guy asks.
I give them another up and down look of appraisal and scoff. “Do I really need to spell it out for you?”
“Hey, go fuck yourself,” baldy snaps.
“There's that razor-sharp wit backed up by an oh-so-powerful intellect,” I say.
Baldy steps up so that we're practically nose-to-nose, staring into each other's eyes. The tension in the bar ratchets up another few levels and I'm starting to think there is no way I'm going to avoid a physical confrontation with this assclown.
“I'm gonna fuck you up, asshole,” baldy growls.
“Walk away,” I say, standing taller.
“Oh, I'll walk away, alright,” he says. “When you're on the ground spittin' up blood and teeth.”
“Last chance,” I say. “Walk away right now.”