open seats at the bar, the drunk old guy saunters over to the one beside me and plops himself down hard.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Maybe if I pretend not to notice him, he’ll go away. To step things up a notch, I pull out one of my pre-law textbooks and hold it up right in front of my face.
I’ve always thought that it’s good to have a plan for the future, and even though I’m not enrolled in law school yet, I like to get ahead of the curve and flip through my books any time I have a moment to myself. I turn a page, eyeing the man in the stool next door over the top edge of the book, and take a sip from my soda. All the while, he keeps staring holes through me. Or at least, he tries to. His eyes are a little unfocused from what I’m sure is enough booze to kill an elephant.
“We don’t get many girls like you around here,” he says finally, his voice gruff and rumbling.
I drag my eyes up from my book and meet his cloudy brown gaze. “Oh no?” I ask with as little interest as I can possibly summon.
“Well, I mean that you ain’t a usual. Especially not with all those notebooks and highlighters and sticky notes and whatnot. What’re you, some kind of smart chick or something?”
I scrunch up my face. “I’m honestly not in the mood to talk right now.” I try to use the calmest, most soothing voice I can manage. A guy that hangs around this bar may not react kindly if I throw my drink in his face and tell him to fuck off, no matter how nice that fantasy sounds.
“C’mon, honey, don’t be like that. Give a man some lovin’ when he’s tryna be nice to ya.”
Every hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I fight off a deep shiver. If there’s one thing I hate more than disorganization, it’s stupid nicknames like honey and baby. Why do guys like him get off on talking down to women like me?
I know I should just blow it off. He’s just some asshole. Not worth my energy. But today, I have the time to do what I always want to do: tell this jerk to stick it where the sun don’t shine.
“No, you come on,” I say, snapping my book closed suddenly and whirling to face him. “I’m not interested in talking to you. That’s why I’m at the bar by myself with my face in a book. Read between the lines, dude.”
“Why even come if you ain’t gonna to talk to no one?” He looks at me with that confused, blinking-too-much face that guys like him love to make. Like there’s no possible logical explanation for why I’d be here if it isn’t to keep him company.
Ugh. Men.
“I’m here to meet my dad, actually,” I say, stuffing my agenda into my backpack. “He’s probably going to ask me for some more money, because that’s the only reason he ever calls me in the first place. Money I don’t have, just so we’re clear. So, unless you’re prepared to empty your pockets and help me pay the man’s bar tab—which, judging by the fact that you haven’t brushed your teeth since Elvis was alive, I seriously doubt you can afford—I suggest you leave me the hell alone and go back to obliterating your liver with bottom shelf poison.”
God, that felt so good to say. I’m standing, I realize with surprise, fists balled up at my sides, blood running hot through my veins. I’m ready to fight if he so much as blinks at me the wrong way. He picked the wrong day to mess with Victoria Elwood.
But for some inexplicable reason, the man grins, and after a moment of silence, bursts into laughter.
“Damn, baby, you’re a feisty one, aren’t ya?” he teases, reaching forward to give my shoulder a nudge. “I like you. You should come around here more often.”
Oh, for crying out loud. Not even being a complete and total bitch to him is enough to send him back to his table.
I start to open my mouth to redouble my efforts when the door to the bar opens and the bell above it dings. Like some cheesy old-school spaghetti Western movie, we both turn our heads to see what kind of newcomer is about to stroll into Saint Booze this afternoon.