Or when a drunken college guy flirted with me, I had a flashing image of Scott white-knighting me again . . . and sometimes, I look up and down the bar feeling like I’m missing something to realize it’s not a drink order. It’s him.
I’m swirling a white rag though a pitcher, setting up for the next round, when I hear it.
“A whiskey shooter, Wild Turkey, with a half-finger of water.”
I slowly turn, trying not to drop the pitcher, and it’s him. The same shit-eating grin, with the dimple on the left side that I thought was so fucking sexy when we first met. Those same devious-looking, psycho-killer eyes that I thought were just naughty before I realized just how deep the crazy went. It’s Rich, my ex-ex-boyfriend.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
“Trying to get a drink, but the service here sucks,” he says with a smile, like it’s a private joke. My jaw drops at his gall.
I clack my mouth closed, disgusted with him.
“Please leave,” I say with as much forceful strength as I can inject into my voice. I will not cower to him, not ever again.
“Why?” Rich asks, leaning on the bar and grinning more, his five o’clock shadow crinkling as he chews his ever-present bubblegum. “I haven’t done anything to anybody.”
I look for help, recognizing in one sweep of my eyes that my bar knife is way at the other end of the bar, Tiffany is in back, taking her break, and Stella looks like something that the cat dragged in after it got run over in the street. I’m on my own. But I can do this. He doesn’t have a hold on me anymore. “What do you want?”
“A Wild Turkey, finger of water,” he says again. I grab the cheap booze, pouring it for him and setting the tumbler in front of him. Rich takes it and sips his drink. “So . . . hear you been dating a big shot.”
“That’s none of your business,” I reply automatically, not wanting to give him any ammunition. A beat later, I realize he said it not to get information but to let me know that he already knew. It sends a chill down my spine that he knows anything about my private life at all. “How’d you find out? Have you been following me?”
“Maybe,” Rich says faux-casually. “A man has to have hobbies, after all.”
My heart freezes, and I nearly turn to call 9-1-1, but the cops will just make him leave the bar. A stressful scene is the last thing Stella needs. And in some twisted way, I want to handle Rich on my own. Aunt May was right. I can fly like an eagle. I might be broken right now, but it’s not because of a pussy like Rich. With him, I can handle myself. A tiny voice whispers in the back of my mind, and if not, there’s a roomful of people who might jump in to help if it gets ugly.
I head down to the other end of the bar, where I get a couple of locals a microbrew. Tiffany comes out, and I give her a little look, and she glances and sees Rich, her eyes narrowing. “Should I get Stella?”
“No . . . but keep your eyes open and watch my back. I don’t want Stella to be stressed out if she doesn’t have to be,” I whisper.
I go back to work, hoping Rich will leave, but after twenty minutes, he’s still there, obnoxiously rapping his tumbler on the bar. “Another Wild Turkey!”
Sweat dots my forehead, but I head down the bar. “Rich, I don’t think—”
Quick as a snake, his hand shoots out to grab my wrist. “You dumb bitch, you don’t think. That’s your problem. I want to talk.”
“Let go of me!” I hiss, trying to keep my voice down. None of the other patrons notice anything, and I try to pull away, but Rich’s grip is iron hard.
I look at his hand wrapped around my wrist, like he did so many times before. Sometimes gentler, sometimes more forceful, but that last night . . . it’d been different. He’d been testing me to see where my boundary was. He didn’t think I’d push back. He was wrong then, and he’s sure as fuck wrong now.
“We’re over and I have nothing to say to you.”
“Over?” Rich growls, pulling me closer to the bar. “You walked out on me. I never said it was over. I fucking own you,”