She wasn’t normally rude to people but she also didn’t fancy striking up a conversation with an obviously highly inebriated man (she’d had enough troubles with men the last few days, thank you very much), especially considering her shoes would not allow her to affect a hasty retreat should she need to do so (and she vowed never to wear high heels again, or, at the very least, on a first date, something which she also doubted she’d do again).
The man swayed then righted himself before he slurred decisively, “I’ll buy you a drink.”
It was at this moment that Sibyl realised Steve hadn’t given her any money to buy all of his friends a drink, friends who she had known no longer then fifteen minutes and the fact of the matter she didn’t know them at all since she hadn’t been given their names. Nor had he (or Sibyl herself for that matter), asked any of the women if they wanted a beverage.
“Thank you but I don’t think so,” Sibyl answered the drunk, stopping herself from going back and asking the women, none of whom said a word to her except “Heya,” what drinks they wanted.
The drunk awkwardly stood, swayed again doing a full, unsteady loop with his upper body and carefully enunciated, “I said, I’ll buy you a drink.”
She turned toward him, saw his bloodshot eyes and then he breathed out. Even though he was still not very close, she smelled his drink-laced breath.
She tried not to wince but knew she was unsuccessful.
“I’m sorry but I’m fine. I don’t need you to buy me a drink,” she replied firmly.
Kind, polite, controlled and not unnecessarily ill-mannered, she was quite pleased with herself.
The bartender put her glass on the bar with a smile.
At its arrival, the drunk slammed the palm of his hand on the bar with such force that it made a loud smacking sound and she jumped. Several of the patrons close to her (and some not-so-close) turned around to look.
“I’m buyin’ that drink!” the drunk slurred loudly and lurched toward her, leaning into her face, his fetid breath hitting her like a slap.
Sibyl immediately became alarmed, her body tensed and she took a hurried step back to flee and slammed into a solid, hard wall.
“She’s with me.” A voice came from behind her. It was vaguely familiar, low, deep and absolutely lethal.
She glanced over her shoulder to see who her rescuer was and stared in disbelief (and not a small amount of shock) at Colin Morgan.
The drunk also turned to look and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man with the frightening look on his face standing so close behind the pretty girl that their bodies were touching.
“All right, mate, no need to get uptight.” The drunk put his hands up appeasingly and stumbled back to his stool. “Pretty girls shouldn’t buy their own drinks, thas all I’m sayin’,” he garbled.
“I agree,” Colin murmured distractedly as he watched five pints placed around Sibyl’s drink.
“That’ll be seventeen fifty,” the bartender said.
Sibyl fumbled in her purse for money, still recovering from the shock of seeing Colin Morgan.
She could not believe that her dream madman was standing so close to her she could feel his body against her back. She could also not believe he’d witnessed her being semi-accosted by a drunk man and felt the need to come to her rescue. She never expected, never dreamed she’d run into him in a club in Bristol. In fact, she had hoped never to see him again for the rest of her natural life and even throughout her unnatural one (if such a thing existed).
She made the immediate decision to spend the rest of her days with old people, Jemma’s family or in her Summer House Girlie Stuff Laboratory and never go out socialising again.
Ever.
Then Colin leaned in and Sibyl felt his hard chest pressing into her shoulder blade and watched as he passed a twenty pound note to the bartender.
At this gesture, she tried to remain cool and collected, though, she had to admit, it was difficult.
“Mr. Morgan, please don’t pay for the drinks. They’re –”
“For your date’s friends, I know,” he interrupted her then continued. “Your date, I might add, saw this gentleman…” Sibyl was not looking at him, couldn’t make herself look at him. She wasn’t even certain she wished to believe he was actually there. She noticed from the corners of her eyes that he jerked his head angrily in the direction of the drunk man. “Begin to approach you and did nothing about it.”
She didn’t respond. There was nothing to say.
Steve, unfortunately, was a jerk.
The drunk man said something though, straight into his nearly finished pint, “Criminal. Leave a pretty girl in the clutches of a degenerate like me.” Then he giggled to himself.