Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
AS I APPROACH the pool table, I try to take stock of what I’m walking into. The drunk guy, wearing a faded Houston Astros tank top, turns to face me. He is short and stocky, with muscular arms and a beer gut, giving me the impression he spends time in the gym, but more likely lifting weights rather than putting in any time on the treadmill. He has a slight grin on his face like the idea of getting into a bar fight makes him happy. His girlfriend just broke up with him, and he’s ready to either beat someone up or get beaten up—it probably doesn’t matter much which.
Fortunately, his friend doesn’t seem interested in joining. He’s taller but thinner, and looks sober by comparison. A water glass sits on a nearby table, and I deduce that he is the designated driver who came along to watch over his friend during his mission to get wasted.
“Come on, Randy, let’s just go find another bar,” the friend says, then, looking up at me, adds, “We don’t want any trouble.”
“The hell we don’t,” says Randy, who picks up a pool cue and snaps it over his knee. “Trouble is exactly what I fucking want.”
He tosses the thin half of the broken stick aside and holds the other end like a baseball bat. This changes things.
I’m not in the habit of wearing a gun when I’m off duty, so I don’t have any weapon on me. I figure I can still probably disarm him, but there’s a decent chance I’ll get hurt. Plus, I was hoping to get out of this without putting the son of a bitch in jail.
Or the hospital.
Waiting around for the cops to arrive will interfere with my alone time with Megan.
“Either that pretty little bartender serves me one more round,” he says, “or I’m going to shove this pool stick right up your ass.”
Megan says, “Neil, call the police.”
I’d forgotten about the professor over by the bar.
“Hang on just one second,” I say, holding up a finger to stall Neil.
I stare at Randy, who looks ready to turn my skull into a home run. Slowly, I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet, flip it open, and show him my Texas Ranger ID. He squints his eyes to read.
“You a cop?” he asks.
“I’m a Texas Ranger,” I say.
His confidence and anger seem to drain from his body. He looks unsure how to continue.
“Jesus Christ,” his friend says, putting his hands to his head. “Put the stick down, Randy. Don’t be an idiot.”
I’m not sure if seeing the badge makes them more scared of me, or if they’re just afraid of what might happen if Randy assaults a Texas Ranger. Either way, Randy doesn’t have the same looking-for-a-fight attitude he did a minute ago. He hesitates for a moment, and I brace myself for the attack. Then he comes to his senses and puts his arms up as if I’m holding a gun on him. He doesn’t let go of the pool cue—he seems to have forgotten it’s even in his hand.
“I’m sorry, mister. I wasn’t thinking.”
I turn to the friend as I pocket my wallet. “Are you sober?”
He nods his head and from over my shoulder Megan confirms that he’s been drinking ice water all night.
“Take your friend home,” I say. Then I give Randy a hard stare. “I don’t know anything about you, Randy, but I didn’t like what I saw tonight. Grabbing a woman’s wrist. Talking about slapping your ex around. Trying to start a fight with me. You need to make some changes in your life. This isn’t how a Texas man behaves.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, his skin a shade or two paler than it was when I first approached him.
“One other thing,” I add, gesturing to Megan. “This woman is a close personal friend of mine. If you ever set foot in this bar again, I’m going to hear about it. I’ve got your first name, and I’ve seen your face. That’s enough. I’m a Texas Ranger. I’ll find you.”
The two men hurry out the door, Randy taking the broken pool cue with him. I follow them and watch as they pull out of the parking lot in a Jeep. I make a mental note of the license number.
When I walk back in, Neil says, “Well, that was quite a display of testosterone.”
I ask Megan if she’s okay, and she says she is. I tell her that her instincts were right to call the police, and I add that she never should have been working alone in a place like this.
“Normally, there’s always at least two people on a shift,” Megan says, “but the other guy called in sick.”
Megan takes a few minutes to turn off the neon beer signs and finish cleaning up behind the bar. Neil milks the last of his beer and then announces that his Uber is arriving.
“See you on campus tomorrow,” Megan calls out as he exits.
A minute later, she and I are finally alone with fresh beers in front of us.
“It’s nice that we finally get some time alone to talk,” I say.
“I’m not sure I’m in the mood to talk anymore,” she says.
“Oh,” I say.
I’m surprised, but I also understand. I only hope my part in the “display of testosterone” hasn’t diminished her attraction to me.
Megan stares at me with her electric-blue eyes and says, “I’m more interested in doing this.”
She leans in to me, puts her soft lips against mine, and we begin to kiss.