Page 6
He doesn't square up or raise his voice. He doesn't have to. He just stands there, and the air on our side of the rooftop changes, like it does right before a storm.
The bartender stops pouring.
"I'm the man telling you this conversation is over."
Mark's smile disappears. He tries to get it back, but it won't come. "You don't know anything about her."
"I know you don't deserve to be in her presence." His voice stays level. "Her body isn't yours to judge. Her answer isn't yours to negotiate."
My breath catches.
No one has ever stood up for me like this before.
He says it like a fact, not a favor. As if Mark's opinion never had the right to touch me in the first place.
Mark laughs, short and ugly. "Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?"
The stranger doesn't answer. He just looks at him, long enough that Mark's laugh dies in his throat.
Mark's hand tightens around his beer bottle. The stranger's eyes flick down to it, then back up, unimpressed. His own hands hang loose at his sides. Big hands. Relaxed. Like they could finish this in one move and he's choosing not to.
"You're leaving now," the stranger says. "And you're not speaking to her again."
Mark opens his mouth.
The stranger takes one measured step closer. Mark takes one back. I don't think he even realizes he's done it.
His voice drops so low I almost miss it. "I don't repeat myself."
Mark swallows. Whatever he meant to say stays there.
He mutters something under his breath, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevator without looking back. He jabs the call button twice.
From here, framed in the elevator's bright box, he looks smaller than I've ever seen him.
The stranger watches until the doors close, then walks back to the bar like it's any other night.
His hands are perfectly steady. Mine aren't.
"A Manhattan for the lady," the stranger says. "Easy on the whiskey. Two cherries. The way she ordered it the first time."
The drink appears in record time.
He has it set on the bar, in front of the empty stool beside him.
It's an invitation.
He doesn't come over. He leaves the decision to me.
Fuck.
How is everything about this man so hot?
I pick up my bag and walk over.
"You were listening," I say, sliding onto the stool.
"He made it difficult not to."
