I look around at the crowd that's starting to dissipate. Now that the fighting is over, there's nothing more to see. Too bad these spoiled little f*ck
s don't know what living really is. Worst thing they've got to deal with is too much homework and whether Mommy and Daddy will give them extra money so they can afford to buy Adderall from their dealer to stay up all night "studying”.
You'd think I would be too young to be this jaded and cynical. Oh, but I wish that was f*ck
ing true. And right now, I'm not overly interested in unpacking any of it with Eli.
I just want to drink.
I fling my arm around Eli's shoulder. "So what's on tap for the rest of the night?"
But apparently, I was right about him wanting to kill me. He jams a finger into my chest. "You know what? I'm really getting tired of running defense for your angry veteran bullshit."
We've been down this road before. He'll bitch at me for fighting, I'll tell him I'm working on my anger management techniques — which we both know is a lie — and we'll go back into his bar and throw a few back. Sometimes a couple of the guys from the b-school will join us but most of the time, it's just me and Eli after things shut down.
"Get some ice for that eye and go home. I'm done tonight."
I drop my arms, the adrenaline starting to fade. "What the hell crawled up your ass?"
"Nothing. I'm sending you home before you start some shit with the next guy who decides to look at you cross-eyed. One fight per night limit."
"New rule or something?" I try to grin but pain starbursts through the side of my face.
"Just…take some ice and go, Josh." Eli sounds tired.
I offer a mock salute and flinch when my fingers tap the edge of my swollen eye. My fingers come away sticky.
Blood. Huh. I guess I'm used to it. I suppose it means I'm alive, so there's that.
I walk into Eli's bar and grab a towel and stuff it with ice. Drop some cash on the bar to cover my tab and head out. I step into the street and dab the towel on my eye. Shit that hurts.
I pull it away and look down at the towel. There's a lot of blood.
Well, f*ck
.
Abby
I'm generally not afraid to walk home from work at night. I walk through campus to my apartment on the other side of the sprawling buildings and new construction.
It's my way of fighting the fear that would paralyze me if I let it.
But I refuse to let my past define my future.
I'm stubborn that way.
But tonight, apparently, my little act of daily defiance against the world might turn out to be a bad decision.
I'm only a block from my apartment. I'm on a well-lit sidewalk.
So why is the hair on the back of my neck standing up?
I'm not overreacting. I rarely do. I'm pretty good at feeling when the shit and the fan are going to make babies.
But somehow, I missed the part when the two drunk guys stumbled out of The Pint, singing some bastardized off-key song that’s so badly mutilated, I can’t tell what it is.
I walk a little faster. Hoping I'm invisible. I usually am, unless someone decides they want to f*ck
the black girl. Then I get noticed. I f*ck
ing hate feeling like this.
And because my life is a series of clichés no matter how hard I try to pretend otherwise, the shorter one sticks around when his buddy ducks into the alley.
"Hey baby."
Damn it. It’s always the little ones you’ve got to worry about. Them and the gym rats who get juiced on steroids.
Head up. Make eye contact. Don't look weak or intimidated. "Not interested."
He frowns. At least I think he does. He's hidden in a haze of Ralph Lauren-wearing nightmares.
He steps in front of me. "That's not very nice."
Chin up. Hope he doesn't hear the fear in my voice.
"What’s your name?"
"None of your business."
Yeah, I'm being rude. But I learned a long damn time ago that you never, ever show weakness in situations like this. Graham would tell me to stop antagonizing the situation, to de-escalate it. But I'm not wired that way. I hate feeling weak. Guys like this will back down if you offer a show of force.
Usually.
My heart is in my throat.
"You're not being very sociable, honey."
"Hey."
Mr. Ralph Lauren looks over my shoulder. I can’t not look.
It's just not my lucky day. I'm trapped. Never really figured on this as a possible end to the night.
This is what I get for not paying attention.
"I think the lady said no."
I stiffen at the voice that melts out of the darkness behind me. And as I glance over my shoulder, I hope to hell things didn’t just get worse.
They definitely just got interesting, though.
My idea of a hero is not a big, muscular guy sporting week-old scruff and holding a bloody bar towel to the side of his face. The rational side of my brain isn't working really well right now, but I need a way out of the jam with Pink Polo and this might be it.
Pink Polo shirt holds his hands up. "Why the hell do you care?"
“Maybe because I said I wasn’t interested,” I say. I don’t know how to do this. How to stand here and let someone else fight my battles for me.