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She’s far too good for me. What the fuck am I doing?
I contemplate closing my tab and walking out before I even get my beer, but my waitress appears and places it on the table just as I reach for my wallet.
“Thank you.” I grab the glass and down half of it in one go. I tell myself I get five more minutes before I have to leave out the back and head home, but then I see a young man approach her.
She smiles, holding out her hand as she introduces herself. She points over her shoulder at her two friends, introducing them as well. Then she follows him over to his table where she sits down and casually talks to him.
It’s innocent enough. They are clearly just getting to know one another when a waitress brings over a tray of shots. It’s clear by the expression on her face that she doesn’t want it, but with the guy’s persistence she ends up taking it.
I shake my head, curling my fist into my hands because I know what the fuck he’s trying to do. I drum my fingers on the table, watching intently as the night carries on. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but I’ve finished my second beer and the bar is now so loud it’s giving me a headache.
The music is loud, thudding in my chest as several sweaty couples grind on each other in the center of the floor. I watch as the man stands up, extending his hand toward Brontë. She looks up at him, then slides her hand into his as he leads her out onto the dance floor.
I grip the glass in my hand so tight I’m shocked I don’t shatter it. I want to leave. I can’t stomach the sight of his hands on her waist as his body grinds against hers. It’s awkward and clunky; the kid clearly has no rhythm, but I’m not sure that’s the point. His intentions are obviously to feel her up as his hands begin to wander over her body.
She can’t possibly be enjoying this. He reaches around and grabs her ass and I see her hands shoot behind her to pull them back up to her waist. I lean forward in my chair, my blood pressure through the roof. Then he slides his hands up her body to cradle her face as he pulls her in for a kiss.
I stand up so fast I bump the table and the glass teeters back and forth. I shoot my hand out and catch it just as it tumbles off the table. When I look back up, Brontë is nowhere in sight, but the man she was with is heading right toward me with his buddy next to him.
“Dude, that girl is so fucking fine, bro.” His friend elbows him in the ribs as they walk toward the exit to my right.
“Just wait,” he says, turning to face his friend as they step outside to the alley, “she’ll be begging me to take her home after a few more shots. Like candy from a baby.”
They both burst into laughter. I shoot my hand out to grab the door before it fully closes and follow them outside. Neither of them notice me as they undo their flies to take a piss against the back wall of the bar.
“You think she’ll come back to our place then, like for real? I’ll make sure I’m out of your way.”
“Hell yeah, dude, she’ll be so wasted she won’t know where the hell she is anyway.”
I walk up behind them and kick the one that was with Brontë in the back of the leg right where his knee meets his shin. It buckles and he stumbles, getting piss all over his jeans.
“What the fuck, bro? Watch it!” he shouts as he stuffs himself back in his jeans and looks down at the wet streaks.
I stand there with my hands in my pockets as I stare at both of them.
“Aw, man.” He attempts to wipe away the urine but it does nothing. “You fucking dick!” he shouts, looking up at me. He lunges toward me with a cocked-back fist, but I step to the side which only angers him more. He pulls his fist back again. This time I swerve and he lands the punch square into the brick wall.
“My hand!” he screams, cradling it with his other hand. “You fucking broke my hand.” His face is bright red as his friend scrambles to help him, but I push him away.
I grab the kid by the shirt, kicking his legs out from under him so that his face is inches away from his own piss on the ground.
“Don’t you ever fucking speak to her again, you understand me? If I see you or that pencil dick little weasel with you around here again, I’ll make sure that neither of you ever reproduce.”
He’s full-on crying now, tears and snot mixing together on his face as I let him fall to the ground. He continues to moan about his hand as his friend runs to his aid.
I step back into the bar, motioning for the waitress to settle my tab and debating on my next move. What I want to do is grab Brontë and drag her back to her apartment and teach her a lesson about guys like that, but I know that’s part of her age, going out to shitty bars and dancing. If I did drag her out of here, especially in front of her friends, she would only resent me, just like she does her father, and that’s the last thing I want.
Instead, I slip out the back and walk the few blocks back to my car, reality hitting me that this is why a twenty-four-year-old is just a fun one-night stand, nothing that you can build on because we want two completely different things.
I climb in my car and put it in drive, pulling out into traffic. That’s when it hits me… Shouldn’t this be what I want? A man who has never desired the happily ever after with a wife and kids in the suburbs. Shouldn’t I be loving the idea of a hot hookup now and then with no strings attached and no feelings?
Suddenly the uncomfortable realization hits me and settles into my stomach. That’s not what I want at all with Brontë Spencer.
I want more.
I want all of her.
Chapter 11
