Chapter Eleven #2
words. "Does the whole fucking bar have to listen to you spittin'
your stupid fucking game?!" I accuse.
"What the fuck do you
care?" Sam replies, visibly working to keep his cool. But he was
already pissed at me, he has been for weeks, so his tone doesn't
surprise me. His words, however, make no sense at all. Because he
didn't tell me to mind my own business or to get lost. He asked
what I care about it, and that makes zero fucking sense, because he
knows very well why I care, so I can't understand his choice of
words. But instead of asking about them, or actually answering his
question, I opt for the least mature route possible.
"No one wants to listen to
you flirtin' your ass off with some stupid slut! Get a fuckin'
room!" My accent is just out of fucking control, but I am drunk,
and my words flood out before I can muster the focus to control
them, or the accent flowing through them.
The hot-girl slut huffs
indignantly, and out of the corner of my Sam-tunnel-vision I can
tell she's glaring at him, willing him to defend her, and vaguely I
wonder if he will. The thought terrifies me. Because as hard as it
is to hear his flirting, I don't think I could physically handle
him actually defending another girl to me. My heart couldn't take
that.
Sam's eyes are glazed, half
hooded in their boozy haze, and I've never seen him drunk like this
before. He can barely hold his head up straight. Or maybe it's my
own intoxicated vision that makes him appear so wobbly. It's
probably a combination of both. And one thing is certain—it's a bad
combination.
"If we want to get a room,
we'll get a fucking room," Sam's voice is laced with hostility, but
it's like his words have nothing to do with the girl included in
the we. Like
she's not even there. He's glaring at me. Glaring
into me. As if he can
see that his words have sliced open my chest and laid bare my
broken, bloody heart for all to see.
My mouth opens to spew
some biting retort, but whatever my words were meant to be, they
don't come. I choke on them instead, and finally register Carl's
grip around my wrist, her other hand gentling my shoulder, urging
me to retreat.
"Rory…" Carl's tone says it
all. That I am embarrassing myself. That at some point, when the
alcohol wears off, and the cold light of day shines it's
unforgiving light on tonight's confrontation, I will regret this
dearly.
The last thing I want to
do right now is back off. To retreat and let Sam and his slut get
back to doing whatever it is they were going to do. My instincts
tell me to prevent it in any way humanly possible. But I know I am
drunk, and I make the choice to trust the judgment of my sober
friend.
With the rush of my deep
exhale, Carl senses me waver and firms her grip marginally, and the
moment I register the moisture in my eyes, I give in. I allow Carl
to tug me away from the source of the drama and into the bathroom,
painfully aware of the muttered expletives and heated exchanges
left in my wake.
Carl, Tina, and Lily watch
me warily in the bathroom as I try to catch my breath, and my
confused vodka-brain tries to work out if I'm more angry or upset.
The truth is I am a dangerous mixture of both.
"You're going to regret
that tomorrow," Carl warns me. "What were you thinking,
Rory?"
But Tina answers for me.
"She was thinking that that whore was hitting on Cap five feet away
from her, duh."
Carl is the only sober
one, and she's outnumbered. None of us are interested in the voice
of reason right now. We're running on booze and emotion instead, me
most of all.
"Well two can play that
game, right? That super hot bartender has been staring at Rory all
night," Lily says conspiratorially.
And I'm instantly
inspired. Two absolutely can
play that game.
I grab some tissues and
wipe the bit of moisture that escaped the confines of my eyelids,
fixing the makeup it smudged. Fortunately there isn't much since
I'm only wearing some mascara. I ask to borrow Lily's lip-gloss and
she watches as I put it on, her eyes alight with mischief. Carl's
are full of concern, but she doesn't voice it. I take a few deep
breaths, muster some false confidence, and make my way back to the
bar.
We each order new drinks,
except of course for Carl, and this time, I offer the bartender a
sugary smile. Out of the corner of my eye I see that Sam's booth is
mostly empty now. Only Tucker and Sam are still seated, while Tuck
talks in hushed tones and Sam seems to chug as much beer as he can
in as little time as he can. The hot slutty girls, including the
one who had been flirting with Sam, are gone, and a quick survey of
the small bar reveals that they've moved on to a group of hipster
looking guys in the far corner.
A wave of relief rolls
through me. But it doesn't change my plans. I am fueled by vodka,
bitterness and resentment, and I need this distraction.
The bartender is receptive
to my new friendly demeanor and he starts chatting me up about
different types of patrons and their preferred drinks. I struggle
to feign interest. I couldn't care less. Even though the
bartender—who has definitely told me his name even though I can't
for the life of me recall it—is pretty damn handsome. I find myself
barely registering the conversation, and instead, I draw silent
comparisons between his features, and the far superior ones
belonging to Sam. Bartender guy has blue eyes too, but they're
dull. They are missing that depth, that shimmer, that Sam's have.
They don't have his impossible ability to see right through
me.
Bartender guy also has
what I'd call a baby face. Soft looking cheeks, without Sam's
rugged bone structure, or the definition in his jaw. When he gets
called away to serve drinks at the other end of the bar, I'm
relieved. My plan isn't working. My heart just isn't in
it.
I turn around to find
myself staring at the friendly face of Dave. I sigh in
defeat.
Dave nods in the direction
of the bartender. "Seems you've got a fan, Pine."
I shrug. I can tell Dave
is holding back. Certainly he's wondering about my outburst, but he
has the decency not to ask me about it.
"You got a cigarette for
me?" I ask.
Dave smirks, like he knows
exactly how badly I could use a cigarette right now. He pats his
pockets and comes up empty. I follow his gaze to the one booth in
the bar I don't want to go anywhere near. At least not again. Dave
smiles apologetically.
"They're in my jacket
pocket. I'll go grab them, wait here," he says, and I
nod.
Dave turns to go push his
way through the faceless bodies, in no rush, obviously hesitant to
interrupt whatever conversation is currently underway between Sam
and Tuck.
"I got one for you, sexy,"
a low, unfamiliar New York accent slurs. I turn into the tall
stranger that must have overheard my exchange with Dave. I don't
say anything, but the drunk stranger is already producing a
cigarette from his pack of Marlboro Lights.
I accept it with a murmured
"thanks", and then turn back to Dave to see if I could get his
attention to let him know I have one. But he's still looking for a
safe way to interrupt a heated, beer pounding Sam and a seemingly
reproachful Tuck to get to his jacket.
"Why don't you join me
outside to enjoy it?" Drunk Stranger offers. I hadn't even realized
he was still there.
"Um, no thanks. I'm
waiting for my friend," I reply. I know Dave will keep me company
while I smoke, even if he doesn't want one himself.
"Friend, huh? Not a
boyfriend?" Drunk Stranger persists, and I vaguely shake my head.
In my mind I'm laughing hysterically at the suggestion that Dave
could be my boyfriend, but on the outside, I'm too uncomfortable to
be anything but awkward. "Well in that case, I'm sure I'll be
better company than he will." Drunk Stranger smirks suggestively
and I practically cringe. I take a step back, but he advances,
presumptuously infringing on my personal space and putting me
immediately on edge.
"Um, no thanks. But thank
you for the cigarette," I force out, but he's not taking the hint.
Instead, he reaches out and fingers a lock of my hair, and I turn
away from his touch.
"Don't." My voice is
barely more than a whisper, and I don't know why I'm not being more
forceful with my rejection.
Instead of backing off,
Drunk Stranger's smile falls away and he seems put out. Like I've
done something to offend him.
"Just come outside with me
and smoke the fucking cigarette I gave you."
My eyes go wide. His
fingers close around my wrist and pull to lead me outside and I
gasp, my feet planting themselves firmly in my spot, digging my
heels into the sticky floor. I want to shout that I'm not going
anywhere with him, but I'm too drunk, and too surprised by his
nerve to articulate my thoughts.
I yank my arm away and he
lets go, seemingly surprised.
And then he's
gone.
He didn't leave, he was
just right in front of me—practically on top of me—one minute, and
the next, he's flown several feet away. It takes a moment to
register that the movement came from the force of Sam's fist flying
into Drunk Stranger's jaw, the blow sending him half across the
bar.
My jaw drops. I hadn't
even seen Sam leave his booth.
Sam makes to jump on Drunk
Stranger, to do even more damage, but Tuck and Dave are instantly
there, holding Sam back, trying to talk him down. I can do nothing
more than look on in horror. Sam is enraged, his restraints only
exacerbating his fury, and his eyes dart from side to side,
reflecting betrayal at his friends who are preventing him from
going after Drunk Stranger.
Drunk Stranger stands,
takes a moment to shoot me a dirty glare, and then spits blood onto
the floor.
"Fucking touch her again,
motherfucker! I fucking dare
you!" Sam roars, and I flinch back at the wrath
in his words.
Suddenly Sam's gaze swings
to me and it morphs, his rage draining, replaced by horror. His