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“Reggie is a retired NFL defensive lineman. That stool is specially made for him. There are titanium rods in the legs. So, not only is it literally a special seat for him, but he will wreck you like Godzilla on Tokyo if you don’t move.”
My mouth is half open for a retort when a hand the size of San Jose lands on my shoulder and squeezes it with the same amount of pressure the earth exerts on coal to turn it into a diamond.
“You mind moving for me, buddy?” The voice is deep, but friendly. Like a volcano rumbling joyously, happy in its purpose, and content to burn an entire town to ashes. “You look comfortable, but that’s my seat. I’ll buy you a drink for the inconvenience of moving. Alexandra, get this guy a round on me.”
Turning, I shift my gaze upwards, straining my neck to meet eyes with a mountain of a man whose smile seems too gentle for the sheer power behind his handshake. With a nod that is equal parts respect and self-preservation, I slide off the stool, feeling like a child moving away from his father's favorite chair.
"No problem. I'll take you up on that drink."
Reggie grins, a massive set of teeth lighting up his face, making him seem more like a giant friendly bear than a force of nature capable of destruction. He takes his seat, the stool not even creaking under his weight — those titanium rods doing their job. I take another spot at the bar next to Reggie..
“Give him some of that stuff from the special bottle I have you keep behind the bar for me, Alex,” Reggie says.
Alexandra pours a drink. It's something amber and smooth, undoubtedly more expensive than what I would typically order. I raise the glass to Reggie and take a sip. It’s smooth, smoky, and something I’ll have to sip and appreciate, or else I’ll look like an asshole in front of the former NFL lineman.
The bar slowly fills up with the night crowd, and Alexandra moves behind the bar with practiced ease, her smile never waning as she makes small talk and cocktails. I watch her from my new perch, noting every exit, every patron who lingers too long near her station. I'm supposed to be here for her protection — or at least that's what I tell myself — but there's something else at play.
Or rather, someone trying to get some play.
He sits at the center of what’s definitely a bachelor party, surrounded by eight other wannabe gorillas, pounding shots, his chest — several times, literally, while hooting — and shooting looks at Alexandra that, as the night goes on, get more and more blatant that he has one thing on his mind and he’ll only accept one answer, too. With every round they order, the tips get larger and Alexandra’s forced, please-leave-me-the-fuck-alone smile gets wider, while Bachelor Boy’s looks get more intense.
“You’re staring at that boy like you’re going to kill him, or you’re going to have to buy him a drink before you pop the question.” Reggie’s voice is a Richter-scale rumble in my ear. “My advice in the first case is: ‘don’t try it.’ And my advice in the second case would be to make sure you’re deep in the alley, at least ten yards past the dumpster, if you want privacy. The lights from the parking lot illuminate more than you’d think. Now, if privacy doesn’t matter to you, that’s fine. Just make sure you wait until after I’ve left before you fuck that boy, because I have no interest in your lovemaking.”
“It’s neither of those options. No killing, no fucking,” I say. “He’s loud and annoying, but that’s about it.”
“You sure? Because you sure are sitting up straight every time he even gets close to Alexandra. You have a thing for her?”
“No. I’m sitting up straight because I was in the Marines and posture matters.”
It’s the lamest fucking excuse, and Reggie and I both know it. But he doesn’t call me out on it.
“Posture is important. You got that right. Now, me, sometimes I get tempted to worry about Alex, but then I remember that she’s handled worse. That boy over there is nothing more than a dumb, drunk child who’s going to make some other man or woman really unhappy for as long as they take to wise up and divorce his ass. Just enjoy your drink and relax.”
He’s right.
I know it. I can see how experienced Alexandra is at handling jerks like him, and I’ve seen firsthand how tough she can be in a fight.
But with every round, that fucking bachelor thinks the extra handful of bills he hands over entitles him to grab a handful of her ass. Alexandra dodges it well at first, but by the fourth time, he’s standing, waiting for her with cash in his hand, a sick smile on his face, and when she grabs the money and heads back to the bar, he follows.
Then he grabs what definitely isn’t his.
Her eyes go wide.
Mine do, too.
Because that son of a bitch just crossed the fucking line..
The stool scrapes against the wooden floor as I stand, my eyes locked on my target. The moment I do, the eight other men in his party stand up as well. I make it four steps toward combat before a look from Alexandra — a look that’s as cold as ice — makes me stop: ‘I’ve got this,’ it says.
“Poor boy thinks he’s won the lottery, but he’s about to find out otherwise,” Reggie chuckles.
Alexandra steps in close, her voice a velvet purr that only the bachelor can hear. Her hand traces a line up his chest before coming to rest on his tie. With a quick jerk, she pulls him down to her level, until they’re face to face. Then she pulls it tighter until the knot is choking him.
"You seem to be under the illusion that what you want has any bearing on what you're entitled to. Let's clear that up right now,” she says.
With a flick of her wrist, she twists his arm behind his back. Then, in another move, she slams his face against the bar so hard the room fills with an audible slap. She wrenches his arm again, and the man gasps in pain.
"This is your one warning," she snarls. "Touch anyone here again, and I will personally ensure you have to walk down the aisle on crutches. Do you understand me?"
