Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ROXY
The bar is what I expected. Dim lighting that barely cuts through the cigarette smoke, sticky floors that haven't been properly cleaned in years, and the smell of stale beer and desperation hanging thick in the air.
A neon Budweiser sign flickers in the window, casting everything in a sickly red light.
The jukebox in the corner plays something country and mournful, all steel guitar and heartbreak.
It sets the tone perfectly for drifters looking to escape.
I take a seat in one of the booths near the window and let out a long breath of exhaustion.
I’m needing food and a break from the endless stretch of asphalt.
The bartender, a woman in her fifties with bleached hair and tired eyes, forces a smile when she comes over to my table, and I order a burger and a water.
She just nods and retreats into the kitchen, leaving me alone at the corner booth with my sketchbook and my thoughts.
I close my eyes and all I can see is Dom. For some reason I replay our first interaction, the way his voice had sounded when he said really good like he meant it in a way that had nothing to do with technique and everything to do with truth. His voice should not be so damn sexy.
I flip open my sketchbook, and try to focus.
I scan the bar and notice a group of four at one of the other booths, looks like a double date, but it’s one of the women in that group who grabs my attention.
I’d say she is in her thirties, but is dissociated from the group.
She has wavy light brown hair to her shoulders, wearing a plaid shirt, no make up.
She’s pretty, but her eyes portray a sadness that no one else sees.
She appears excluded from the conversation as the other three all laugh and chat around her, like she isn’t there.
But I don’t think she wants to be there.
Her eyes frequently drift out of the window like she is thinking of something else completely.
Does she dream of being in another country?
Is there another guy? Is she regretting all of her decisions that led her to this point?
Whatever she is thinking, I quickly start to sketch her, completely absorbed in the raw emotions playing out on her face that nobody seems to notice.
My burger and drink arrive and I eat mechanically, barely tasting it, with my other hand still moving across the page.
I add shadows, depth, texture, making the mystery woman more real than she probably feels.
I’m so focused on the drawing that I don’t notice him approaching until he is already sliding into the seat across from me.
"Well hey there, sweetheart."
I look up and inwardly groan in annoyance.
He’s maybe forty, with a beer gut straining against a stained t-shirt and the glazed eyes of someone who's been drinking since happy hour. His smile shows too many teeth, and there is something predatory in the way he’s looking at me that makes my skin crawl.
"Not interested," I say flatly, returning to my drawing.
"Aw, don't be like that," he says, his voice slurred and his words running together." Just being friendly. Pretty girl like you shouldn't be sitting all alone."
"I like being alone."
"Nobody likes being alone."
He leans forward, trying to see what I’m drawing.
"Whatcha got there? You an artist or something?"
I close the sketchbook, my jaw tightening, annoyed that this irritating fucker has ruined my mood, taken me out of the zone.
"Look, I'm just trying to eat. I'm not looking for company."
"Just one drink," he presses. "Come on, one drink. I'll buy."
"No."
"You don't gotta be a bitch about it."
"I said no." I keep my voice level, controlled, even though fury is starting to simmer under my skin. I'd dealt with guys like this before. Usually they got the hint eventually and slunk away to bother someone else. But this one isn’t moving.
"What, you think you're too good for me?" he says, his tone altering, turning ugly. "Sitting here in your little dress, tits practically hanging out, and you think you can just…"
"I think you should leave." I meet his eyes, letting him see that I’m not scared. Just done. "Now."
For a second I think he might actually listen and accept that he is crossing a line, that this isn't going to end the way he wants. But no, instead of listening, his hand shoots across the table and grabs my wrist.
"Don't touch me," I say, trying to pull away. His grip tightens, fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise.
"Or what?" He’s leaning across the table now, his breath hot and sour with alcohol. "You gonna call for help? Nobody in here gives a shit, sweetheart. Nobody's gonna save you."
How wrong he is, because one second he is gripping my wrist, leering at me with those dead drunk eyes.
The next he’s being yanked backward out of the booth, his hand ripped away from mine, and his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud that makes the whole bar go quiet, leaving just the music for company
And standing over him, dressed all in black, is Dom.
"She said no," Dom says quietly.
The drunk scrambles backward, trying to get to his feet, but Dom is faster.
His boot connects with the guy's ribs and I hear the crack even over the jukebox.
The drunk man wheezes, curling in on himself, and Dom crouches down beside him.
I look around and some people have gone back to their conversations, as others continue to watch but not intervene. I guess this shit happens a lot.
"You don't touch her," he says, his voice so calm it’s terrifying, like a nightmare becoming real life.
"You don't look at her. You don't fucking breathe in her direction. Understand?"
"Fuck you!"
Uh oh, that’s the wrong answer, and is it wrong that I’m quietly thrilled?
Dom's fist connects with the drunk's face and I hear the wet crunch of cartilage breaking.
Blood sprays across the sticky floor, dark and grim in the dim light.
The drunk tries to fight back, swinging wildly without connecting, but Dom catches his arm and twists it.
Another crack followed by a shrill scream.
I should look away and be at least inwardly horrified, disgusted, and maybe even scared. I should call for help, or ask someone to stop him, but I can’t move or even breathe.
I can only watch as Dom systematically destroys this man who touched me.
Each punch is controlled and precise. This isn't rage, this is something colder. He’s hurting him because he wants to, because he can.
Dom is fucking up this piece of shit because he put his hands on something that doesn't belong to him.
On me.
The drunk's face is a mess of blood and broken bones. His nose is definitely shattered, maybe his jaw too. One eye is already swelling shut and he’s making these sounds that are wet, gurgling noises that might be pleas for help or the sound of someone drowning in their own blood.
Before I can think, Dom grabs him by the hair, yanking his head back and forcing the asshole to look at me.
"Apologize," he demands. The tone of his voice is like pure sex being poured into my soul.
The drunk man’s mouth works, blood bubbling between his lips. "S-sorry."
"Not to me." Dom's voice was ice. "To her."
The drunk's one good eye finds me where I remain frozen in my seat, unable to look away, and I see fear.
Like real, primal terror. The kind of fear you only feel when you realize you've fucked with the wrong person, when you understand that you might actually die here on this sticky bar floor surrounded by people who wouldn't lift a finger to help you.
As crazy as it sounds, I have to stop myself from laughing.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles through broken teeth. "I'm sorry…please…"
Dom looks at me, and the question in his eyes is clear. Enough? Or should I keep going?
I guess I should say no, tell him to stop and that the man has had enough, and has learned his lesson, that this has gone too far already. But when I open my mouth, what comes out is the complete opposite.
"He grabbed me pretty hard. My wrist still hurts," I say, and I’m aware I’m unintentionally pouting.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t have time to dissect this side of me because I’m too occupied watching the demonic and satisfied look that flickers across Dom's face.
Without questioning my response, he looks back down at the drunk, still gripping his hair, and smiles.
"You heard her. Gotta do what the lady wants."
The sound of the drunk's wrist breaking is sharp and clean, like a branch snapping. His scream is high pitched, echoing off the walls before Dom lets him drop on the dirty floor. He collapses in a heap, cradling his shattered wrist, sobbing.
Dom stands up slowly without a care in the world, like he didn't just beat a man half to death.
He looks around the bar, first at the bartender who stands behind the counter, then at the handful of other patrons who'd watched the whole thing without intervening, then at the blood splattered across the floor.
"Anyone else want to bother her?" he asks conversationally, but is met with silence.
"Good."
He walks over to my booth, his knuckles split and bleeding, and holds out his hand. I stare at it for a second, looking at the blood, at the evidence of what he'd just done, and the choice he was offering me.
This was the moment. Take his hand and accept what he is. What we are. Or walk away and pretend this never happened.
Of course I take his hand, as who wouldn’t at that romantic display?
His fingers close around mine, warm and solid and wet with someone else's blood, and he pulls me to my feet. I grab my sketchbook and bag with my free hand, leaving the half-eaten burger and warm water behind. My legs feel unsteady, my whole body buzzing with adrenaline and something else, it’s something that’s hot and electric, pooling low in my stomach.