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"Shut up," I whispered. "Take it like a man."
He conceded and leaned into my hand. He still smelled of the job, of grass and sweat, but there was a new scent—alcohol. He must have marinated in it. How much did it take to make him swing at a client? What else would he do, under the influence.
“Hey princess, mind giving up that seat?"
Lee's eyes flicked back open as I glanced over my shoulder. A man stood at the bar; his tattooed arm wrapped around a woman I'd politely describe as hard. His free hand gripped the edge of my stool, as if he was contemplating giving it one firm yank that would knock me onto the filthy floor. I glanced quickly around the skinny bar; the landscape uninterrupted by the rough couple. I was the only outlier in my starched white blouse, pale yellow pants, beaded flats, a YSL bag hanging off my elbow. I’d been in pajamas when Lee had called and had gotten dressed in the same outfit I’d worn to have lunch with the HYA board members. It had fit in well at the upper crust French restaurant. Here, I might as well be wearing a giant PRISSY LADY WALKING sign.
My survival instincts, which had fallen dormant from lack of use, slowly raised their head. I did not belong here at midnight on a Friday night. It was stupid of me to walk into this pressure cooker of alcohol and rough men and expect not to be noticed, pushed around, and put in my place.
I slid off the stool with a gracious smile. "Sure."
The man's face didn’t change, any delight at getting a seat disguised by a thick beard.
"Sit back down." The order was a growl from Lee, who lifted his head high enough to glare at me.
“I—We should be leaving anyway.” I said, my voice low. God, I didn't need this. Lee was already bloody from one stupid fight, now defending my honor in a place packed with idiots.
He lurched to his feet, swaying slightly as he turned to face the man. The guy hadn't budged, his girlfriend still suction-cupped to his side. "What the fuck's your problem?"
I pulled on his arm. "Lee." The plea earned me a moment, a glance in which everything paused, and he looked at me and I saw everything he couldn't say in that one moment.
He couldn't buy me cars. Couldn't drown me in diamonds and buildings and trips around the world. He couldn't even pay for the beer tab from tonight’s drinking. But this, this was one thing he could do. He could stand, fight, bleed for me. This was something Brant would never do, a situation my alternative relationship would never encounter. This was Lee's world.
Here he was king.
Here he would slay the tattooed dragon and be my hero.
His eyes burned the air between us, and I let out a shaky breath. Releasing his arm, I sank back onto the highly contested stool.
"You guys ain't drinking. Make room for someone who is,” the man barked.
Lee rose, his entire body tight, and I saw his punch telegraphed a million ways from Sunday. I had a moment of admiration at the flex of his arm muscles when he lunged forward, his right hook missing my insulter as the man leaned back and easily avoided the punch.
I closed my eyes, afraid to see any more. The smack of fist against flesh sounded and the bar suddenly fell silent as everyone’s attention shifted. I opened my eyes in time to see Lee stagger forward and land a punch, the man's head snapping back in an unnatural fashion. I surged off my stool and worked my way in between the two, my gaze catching sight of the other woman in this equation. She snapped a wad of gum and beelined for my open stool, her concern nonexistent as long as her seat was secured.
"Stop, Stop!" I screamed the words into Lee's face, and he hesitated long enough for me to shove him back into the crowd, the sea of bodies swallowing us whole, the bar not big enough to accommodate a crowd shift without a relocation of the population. I linked my arm through his and dragged him to the door and out to the street.
I expected curses, a fight to return inside, but he only staggered in the outside air. Stumbled forward, then backward, then sat, his knees buckling in such a fashion that his descent to the ground was almost graceful, a plié that planted him on the dirty curb. His arms folded on the top of his knees, and he dropped his head to his forearms.
I took a seat next to him, as carefully as I could. The minute my butt hit the concrete, my linen pants were condemned to an early death.
It was quiet out here, the roar from the bar muted, giving us a reprieve from the bedlam. I hung my head. I should be at home, neck-deep in a bubble bath, a book in hand. Or curled in a blanket, on the porch hammock, listening to the ocean until I fell asleep.
"You'll never do it." His words were a slur of depression and desperation.
"Do what?" I kept my head down, eyes closed. I didn't want to see his face and didn’t really want to know the answer to my question.
"Leave him." Somewhere in the darkness of the parking lot, there was the crunch of glass and a curse. "You won't, will you?" I felt his gaze on me, forcing myself to lift my head and meet his eyes.
A destroyed man sat beside me, his arms around his knees, and the image sent a shiver along my soul. I had seen this man in so many different lights, but this was the weakest. This is the one that touched me deepest and hurt me the most. The one that I, in some ways, loved the most.
And this is the destruction that I caused. Why didn’t I anticipate this scenario? Never did I think of Lee getting hurt—of Lee caring to that extent. I wanted him to want me—I just didn’t see the risk in that until now.
I told him the truth. "No, I won't. I won't ever leave him."
He broke the eye contact, resting his head on his hands, and silence fell between us.
Then, with a forward heave and strangled cry, he tipped forward and vomited onto the gritty asphalt.
