Page 25 of Snake

With a friendly nod, he turned back to his glass-stacking task.

Okay, this sucked. She’d been worried about and then ready for a gauntlet of some kind, maybe a repeat of that awful night last year, when she’d been pushed around, pawed at, had food and booze thrown at her, and literally shoved out the door, but this nothing was almost worse.

No, it objectively was not worse. But Autumn was so restless she thought she’d pop out of her skin. It was like she was waiting for something to change.

Maybe she should change it. Put herself right in the middle of whatever action this bar on this night had to offer, and see what happened.

Looking over her shoulder, she considered the dance floor. That would put her in everybody’s notice—and she didn’t mind dancing on her own, either. She didn’t know this music, but she didn’t need to know a song to follow its beat.

That other night flashed through her mind again. No, she didn’t want to be out there on her own, an unambiguous target, should anyone care to take aim. Could she ask Cox to dance? Did he dance?

Ha! Come on. Mr. Personality over here absolutely did not dance.

Well. There was nothing she could do here but drink.

She finished her Jameson and caught the bartender’s attention for another.

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~oOo~

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About half an hour later, Autumn finished her third whisky and her second pint of water. Despite trying to pace herself and watering down the booze in her belly, she was feeling it a little—that good, mellow buzz where her joints filled with liquid heat and all the crap that gnawed the edges of her mind every waking second shut up and she was simply in the moment.

This moment was still dull as grey paint, unfortunately. She was here with—sort of with—a very hot biker dude, but he was about as much fun as a case of the measles. They’d had some banter earlier—she remembered there was banter earlier, right?—but now he was just a bump on the bar. Every time she asked a question or made a comment, all she got back was a monosyllabic answer or a vague shrug or nod.

More people had come in; almost all the barstools were now full. A frowsy woman with vivid teal hair, who really could have used a bra to control the boulders rolling under her flowered polyester top, sat beside Autumn and kept leaning into her as she laughed at whatever her pipe-cleaner-skinny guy said.

And there was Cox, leaning against the bar, sipping his third? beer, paying Autumn no real attention, though he was six inches away.

This was stupid. Anyway, she needed to pee, and the urge was strong enough to warrant risking typhus or some other horrible bacteria that was surely lurking in a dive-bar ladies’ room.

Getting Vince’s attention, she tapped her empty whisky glass. When he acknowledged her with a nod, she slid off her stool. Bar stools always made her feel as small as a child; her feet barely touched the footrest, and she had to jump down. It was impossible to do so gracefully.

This time, she landed hard and almost stumbled, until Cox grabbed her arm and steadied her.

“Where you goin’?”

“To the ladies’ room!” she answered, finding the words more cumbersome than they should be. “Am I allowed to do that on my own, or do you want to come along and watch?”

For several seconds he stared at her, eyes flashing irritation or something like it. Then he let her go and tipped his head toward the far side of the bar. “Over there.”

As she made her way through the half-full bar, Autumn realized that maybe she was a little more than tipsy. She’d eaten a decent dinner, but maybe she’d ordered her Jamesons a bit too close together. Well, it didn’t matter. She had a warden tonight; if he was going to dog her every move, the least he could do was get her home safely.

She found the ladies’ room down a narrow, dim hallway and locked herself inside. It wasn’t as gross as she’d expected.

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~oOo~

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When Autumn came out of the bathroom, the big man who’d been sitting at the end of the bar was in the hallway, between the doors to the gendered bathrooms. Before she registered more than surprise, he grabbed her by the throat and whipped her around so his body blocked hers from view in the bar. He pushed her against the wall and leaned in so close she felt the humid waft of his breath, rank with beer and onions.

His hand was tight enough around her throat to throttle any hope of a scream. She could breathe, but only just. Grabbing at his hand had no effect; trying to dig her nails in only made him tighten his grip and close the slim passage her airway had left. Was he trying to kill her?

“You bought my house out from under me, you nasty bitch,” he snarled in her face. “I got three kids, and no place to go without takin’ ‘em outta their school. And for what? A damn motel?”

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