15. Chapter 15
Chapter 15
Derek
I only go to the bar because I know Greg won't be there. I might as well start my week off of work on the right foot with a beer and a hot meal. I don't expect any surprises until I notice Faith walking into the bar, still in her nurse's scrubs, looking exhausted after a long shift. She takes a seat at a table across from the bar itself, and we lock eyes as she settles in. Neither of us makes an attempt to approach the other, but instead, we exchange a polite nod and a smile before the waiter steals her attention and takes her order.
Just when I'm about to pay my tab just moments later, another familiar face walks in, but this one isn't as friendly, especially not when his eyes lock onto Faith as he makes a beeline to her. They talk for only a minute, maybe longer, but the whole time, Faith shakes her head and pulls her hands away every time he tries to reach across the table to touch her. Finally, she's had enough.
"I told you to leave me alone!" she roars, loud enough to get mine and the bartender's attention.
But when Ryan realizes people are watching, he snaps. He throws his drink in Faith's face and grabs her arm, yanking her from her seat. I don't hesitate. I leap from my chair and charging towards them. Faith struggles against him, landing a slap across his face, but he retaliates with a brutal smack that makes her cry out in pain.
Fury ignites within me. I seize Ryan's arm, spin him around, and punch him square in the mouth, forcing him to release Faith as he stumbles to the floor.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, hitting a girl like that?" I shout, my voice shaking with rage. I yank him up by his jacket and deliver another punch, this time to his jaw. He reels back, eyes wild with anger, and swings his fist at me. I dodge just in time, and his punch connects with a wooden beam behind me, a sickening crunch followed by his agonized groan. "I knew you were a piece of shit and obviously a psychopath. You just made your face a target to every man in this bar; good luck, walking down the street in peace now." Shoving him into the wall full force with my shoulder.
"Get the hell out of my bar!" the bartender yells as he grabs Ryan by the jacket and hauls him to the door, kicking and screaming. "Stay out, or I'll call the cops!"
The fight fizzles out as quickly as it started. Once Ryan is gone, the bar’s energy shifts back to normal almost instantly.
Once Ryan is out the door, the bartender nods, "I'm beginning to wonder if trouble just follows you wherever you go."
"It definitely has a way of finding me," I admit before rushing to Faith and making sure she's okay.
"In case no one told you," she winces as she holds her eye. "Whiskey in the eye doesn't feel good."
"I can imagine. Let me see," I say as I gently take her hand away from her face. She squints it tightly, but I can already see the red irritation starting to grow. "Let's rinse it with some water."
I scoop her up and help her to her feet, guiding her into the men’s bathroom. It’s just the two of us in the cramped space. She moves to the nearest sink, her movements shaky, and immediately reaches for the cold water.
"God, I hate the smell of this stuff," she says as I take the hair tie from her wrist and pull her chocolate brown locks into a low ponytail. "Every time I smell it, I think of him."
"I was never a fan of whiskey," I admit. "I never understood people who liked drinking something that I think would taste pretty damn close to gasoline."
I can't help but feel a bit of pride when she giggles at my comment.
"Or when people go to bourbon tastings and the tour guide says to taste the notes of fruit and nuts, but they all know it's nowhere to be found," she chuckles as she blindly reaches for the paper towels.
"I got you," I say as I hand her a couple. She carefully dabs her eye and blinks a few times before standing up from the sink and looking around.
"Huh," she says once she can open her eyes a bit more.
"What?" I ask as I dab it with a damp paper towel.
"The men's bathroom is cleaner than I thought."
"Did you think we just wallow in our own filth?" I ask as I dry her face.
"No, but I expected it to be somewhat messy with a hint of piss smell and smear on the walls," laughing, her gaze slowly meeting mine. "Thank you for being in the right place at the right time."
"Don't worry about it; he had it coming," I assure her.
"What did the bartender mean about you and trouble?"
"This happens to be the same bar that Greg and I got into it," I explain.
"Ah, gotcha," she says, tapping my injured forearm. "How's that looking, by the way?"
"It itches like hell, and I'm too chicken shit to look at it," I admit.
"Alright," she sighs, tossing the paper towels in the trash. "Your turn."
"Uh, no, thank you," I say, taking a step back, but the look on her face says she's not having it.
"Just let me toss the old bandage and clean it up," she says. You don't want it to get infected, do you? Because then you need antibiotics, maybe even surgery…"
"Ugh, fine," I roll my eyes as I slide my jacket off and carefully roll up the sleeve of my sweater.
"We really need to stop meeting like this," she grins as she carefully unwraps my arm.
"Technically, you ran into me," I point out, fearing her potential reaction to my arm that I've been trying to ignore all weekend.
"Not too bad," she nods as she tosses the now yellow bandages into the trash. "Bring it to the sink."
I do as she asks, and I wait as she sets the temperature to lukewarm before she slowly wipes away the sweat and dirt that's surely gathered since she put the bandages on. But with every swipe, it only itches more.
"Does it hurt?"
"No, it just feels like someone put itching powder in my laundry, that's all," I say as I fight to hold still.
"Ice packs," she chuckles as she keeps cleaning. "If you put an ice pack up here by your elbow or down by your wrist, it'll trick your brain into thinking your arm isn't itchy at all."
"Why not directly on the cuts themselves?"
"Because that'll irritate the skin and take longer to heal," she explains. "Place them above or below the cuts, and you'll be fine."
"Good to know," I sigh as she finally finishes up.
"I have some bandages back at my place. You should follow me back so I can wrap it up again," she says, using paper towels to keep it covered in the meantime.
"I'm not sure that your house is the smartest place to be right now," I say as I carefully roll down my sleeve.
"He wouldn't do that," she insists, but we both know the other is thinking it when we lock eyes.
"If you were right, I wouldn't have had to tighten down your locks, would I?"
She swallows hard as she's hit with a heavy dose of the truth. I can see her nerves start to rattle the more she thinks about heading back home, knowing the danger that already waits for her there.
"Hang out with me tonight," I insist. "We can order a pizza and watch whatever movie you want."
"Why are you offering suddenly?" she asks her eyes a mix of past hurt and present confusion.
"Call it making up for lost time," I answer, and the bartender walks in, inspecting the sight of the two of us.
"Everything okay?" he asks, pointing to his own eye.
"Nothing a little water couldn't wash out," she replies.
The bartender, satisfied with her answer, leaves us in peace. I keep insisting she come back home with me so I know I can keep an eye on her.
"You know he's going to stay pissed for the rest of the night, if not into the morning," I remind her gently, my voice tinged with worry. "For both our peace of mind, please just come back to my place."
She hesitates, a storm of emotions playing across her face, but finally gives a reluctant nod. Relief floods through me as we close our tabs and head out. As we drive, I keep glancing in the rearview mirror, my heart pounding, checking to make sure we're not being followed.