Page 20 of Unhinged

More giggling commences as they watch every fucking move I make, which would be awkward if I had to scratch my balls. Or an invitation?

Off to the side, a regular shoves his glass toward me, and I catch it without looking. All five women’s jaws drop as I take the glass to Sal’s poison of choice, Miller Lite. What a waste. Sliding the glass back to him, he smoothly catches it and attaches it to his pie hole.

The blonde says, “Whoa. That was like that eighties movie with Tom Cruise.”

Kleo says, “Cocktail!” They all laugh, and I can’t help laughing with them. Are they so hard-up for a guy to talk to them?

Kleo props her elbow on the bar with a weird grin as I pass them each a refill. She watches everything I do, which makes me nervous. “So, Greg. Do you think I can take you to dinner for your birthday?”

An arm goes over my shoulder and his knockoff Nautica cologne, Marine, slams me like a frying pan to the face. I know because he keeps a bottle of it in his desk at the firm. My whole body stiffens, except for my dick, which has shriveled up and fallen off.

“I see our Greg is charming you, young ladies.” If I kill him impulsively, I should escape a murder one charge.

Kleo’s eyes grow alarmed, as do mine. “I’m sorry. Are you two together?”

I lean away from Amos while still stuck in his clutches. “Hell, no!” I shriek, but Amos’s expression is unmoved, as usual. A wet mop possesses more emotional range.

I try to move away, but Amos tightens his meat hook on me. Kleo says, “We were just chatting with Greg. He’s so sweet.” I’ve said nothing in that neighborhood.

I elbow Amos, but he’s a dead whale stuck between two barges. When I realize he’s not moving, I say, “Please excuse this homeless man. I’m sponsoring his sobriety. Kind of like an adopt-a-drunk program.” I’m pretty sure Amos is an alcohol virgin, regardless of him running aground here.

The blonde is incredulous. “In a bar?”

From underneath his heavy arm, I shrug, straining my neck. “Tough love, right?” I don’t want any kind of love with the bastard. I’d rather have eye herpes. It’s a real thing. Just ask my great-uncle Milford.

Kleo returns to her earlier question. “So, Greg Rodwell? Is it a yes?”

Before I answer, Amos asks, “What’s your last name?”

“Glover.”

Amos nods. “Do you live around here?” What the fuck is he doing? Screening my dates? Bullshit.

Kleo smiles, and I interrupt, “You don’t have to answer any of his questions.” I then turn to him with a glare. “Shouldn’t you be standing at a podium, chanting some kind of prayer to alcohol?” Kleo and her friends laugh. I wish I wasn’t thinking of how to dismember a body.

Still, she answers, “Yes. I live here in Durham.”

Amos finally drops his arm from me, and now I reek of Aisle Five at Walgreens. I say, “Cool. I guess we should exchange numbers at least.”

Amos says, “I imagine your mother would like to have dinner with you on your birthday. She’s still having a hard time since Eden, so…” Amos’s seemingly friendly smile is a straight-up dirty move, and he probably knows plenty. “Between working here and at Home Depot, you’re a busy guy.” I inhale, mentally grinding his dead body in a wood chipper.

Kleo offers, “Oh. I’m leaving to go to Fort Lauderdale with my sister to visit our grandparents for two weeks. We can always try sooner for dinner?”

I step in front of Amos, answering, “Uh, yeah.” Uh, no way. I’ve only been on dates with Rhonda and Shasta. Not the best two to add to my resume. I’m such a sorry excuse for a man.

Kleo grins and removes her phone from her purse. “I guess we should exchange numbers so we can coordinate this.”

Amos slaps my back. “Maybe after dinner, you can introduce her to your mother, Greg, since you live with her, anyway.” Fuck what?

Kleo giggles, but it’s uncertain, like she’s regretting giving me a second look or not setting fire to the bar. “Um, sure.” She hands me her phone to put my number into it, and I move away from Amos before I slam his bald head off the bar. When I hand the phone back to Kleo, her face lights up. “Excellent.”

Amos says, “Well, ladies, I hate to steal Mr. Rodwell away from you, but there’s beer to restock.”

I whip my head to face the overstuffed turkey, noticing he’s dressed all in brown, looking more like a turd than a Butterball. Amos drags me to the kitchen, where I spin around. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“You shouldn’t be fraternizing with the patrons. They’ll use you for complimentary spirits.”

“Huh?”

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