Page 172 of Burn Bright
The gruff beefy dude bellows out an obnoxiously loud laugh with his friends. It puts me on edge since he was disgruntled two seconds ago.They aren’t laughing at you, Harriet.I close out the couple, their beers already in hand.
Beefy Dude and his friends hastily take their spots. Then he motions to me like he’s not right in front of my face. “Hey, we’re next.” He points at his head.
“What can I get you?”
“What’s got you so fucking mad?” he snaps.
What would Ben do?I shrug. “The Yankees just lost.”
“Damn right.” They all start to smile and up-down me like I’m cool. A fellow dejected sports fan and not at all a moody bitch.
“You want a beer?” I ask, hoping to move this drunken train along the tracks. Somewhere far, far away from me.
Beefy Dude appraises me to where my bones instantly rust. He laughs a little to himself, then points to an expensive bourbon. “A double. On the rocks.” The bottle is on thehighestshelf.
I grind my teeth, seeing him snicker. Let’s see the five-foot-one girl try to reach the top-shelf bourbon. Howhilarious.
I look to Ben for help—it’s an instinct now.
He sees me and up-nods. I point to the bourbon, and he’s quick to come behind me and grab the liquor.
“No, man,” Beefy Dude stops Ben. “Put it back. She’s got it.”
Ben is unamused. His pissed-off glare drills into Beefy Dude. He hands me the liquor bottle, not listening to the asshole.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
Ben remains on my side of the bar. His supreme stare-down is shaking Beefy Dude’s friends. They’re starting to detach from him, but this guy isn’t reading the room. I’m sure the beer goggles aren’t helping, but being drunk doesn’t excuse being a total dick.
I’m about to pour a double, but Beefy Dude exclaims, “Nah, I don’t want that anymore. I’ll take that one.” He jabs a finger toward another top-shelf bourbon. His smug smirk crawls under my skin. Anger smolders in my lungs. I’m sure I’m glowering, but he does not give a shit. He just tells Ben, “She’s got it this time. We have a thing going, me and her.” His drunk eyes fall to me. “Isn’t that right?”
“No,” I deadpan.
“Yeaaah we do. We’re connecting here.” He laughs. “I know you can jump for it. Go on, jump.” He stares at my tits in preparation for me to bounce.
“You can leave,” Ben states firmly. His glare never loses scathing heat.
“Whoa, I have every right to get a fuckin’ drink.”
“We have every right to refuse you service when you’re harassing?—”
“Harassing? For fuck’s sake, I’m just trying to get a drink!” Look at that sudden memory loss. He’s puffed up with hostile aggravation, and his friends butt up to the bar, apologizing on his behalf.
“No, he needs to go.” Ben has now pushed his way in front of me, shielding me from the situation.
“I didnothing,” Beefy Dude bemoans. “What kind of fucking place even has high schoolers serving alcohol?”
“We’re in college, and you can get the fuck out.”
Again, they try to reason with Ben, but he’s on a firm line they’re not shoving him off. His bodyguard has risen from his usual table near the entrance.
All I see are the many paying customers being disturbed by Beefy Dude’s outburst, and they’re simply just trying to enjoyGhostbusters, their pints, their friends, and their Sunday night.
“Ben, it’s fine,” I cut in.
His head swings down to me, confusion hardening his features. “No, Harriet?—”
“Just give him a beer and tell them they can sit in the back if they don’t bother anyone.”
