“You sure you can handle some more?” the bartender asked.
Why couldn’t the guy mind his own damn business? “Of course.” She waved her finger above the glass. “More, please.”
He lifted a brow and removed the glass from the bar. “You’ve got a designated driver, right?”
A designated driver? Shit, she hadn’t thought about that. Maybe she could call Annabelle to pick her up on her way home. Yeah, she’d do that.
“Of course,” she answered again. “What kind of person doesn’t designate a driver?”
The guy shook his head and went to refill her glass. Nosy bastard.
The game on the television moved into the fourth quarter with the Broncos down by fourteen. Or was that twenty-four? Shit, she couldn’t read the numbers on the screen.
Yeah, maybe she’d had too much to drink. Time to call it quits. Except the bartender set another full glass down in front of her. It would be rude not to drink it, wouldn’t it? Clearly he’d gone to the trouble to make her another one.
So, yeah. She should drink it.
But maybe she ought to call Annabelle first to come pick her up. Might as well while Stella’s brain was still functioning seminormally.
She twisted on her stool to retrieve her phone from her clutch, and the thing fell out and landed on the floor.
“Crap,” she whispered to herself.
She was reaching down to grab the thing when the guy next to her hopped off his stool, actually fell was more like it, and his big-ass boot landed right on top of her phone.
“Hey,” she chastised, but the guy with no neck—we’ll just call him No-Neck—didn’t hear her.
He stumbled around his stool, giving Stella the opportunity to swipe her phone off the nasty floor. And, damn, the screen was cracked. No-Neck, who’d elbowed her so many times that she practically had a mold of his elbow in her side, had broken her phone.
She swiped her hand over the cracked screen and pushed the power button.
Nothing.
“Hey.” She grabbed the guy’s shoulder.
No-Neck high-fived the other drunk asshole he was with, then turned around to face her.
Stella waved the broken phone in his face. “You broke my phone.”
No-Neck squinted his bloodshot eyes as though he couldn’t see the thing clearly. Probably because he couldn’t. “Nah, that wasn’t me.” Then he turned around to walk away.
What the…?
She grabbed his brawny shoulder again. “Yeah, it fell on the floor and when you stepped off your stool, your boot landed on it.” She waved the phone in his face again. “See, the screen is cracked and now it won’t turn on.”
He swayed backward and laughed. Because the situation was so damn hilarious. “I think I would know if I had stepped on a cell phone.”
Hardly. He hadn’t even known he’d been elbowing her the entire time.
“Well, you did. And now my phone is broken,” she accused.
“What do you expect me to do about that?”
Yeah, Stella. What’s he supposed to do about it?
She glanced around the bar, which she shouldn’t have done because she spotted Brandon again. He and his date had left their table and were deep in a game of pool. The woman was bent over the table like she was inviting Brandon to do her from behind. And Brandon was leaning on his pool cue, not watching his date but watching Stella. Eyebrow lifted as though he sensed trouble and would come to her rescue if she so much as lifted a finger.
She didn’t need rescuing by anyone, let alone Brandon West. In fact, some days she felt like she needed rescuing from him.
No-Neck was still waiting for a response, so Stella crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, for starters you could loan me your phone so I can call my friend.”
He narrowed his eyes at her and dug around in his back pocket. “What else?”
“What else?” she repeated.
He handed over his phone. “You said ‘for starters,’ indicating there’s more.”
She took the phone and dialed Annabelle’s number. “You can pay for my drinks.” Because that’ll teach him to step on someone’s phone.
The other end of the line rang while No-Neck dug a twenty out of his wallet and tossed it on the bar.
Stella ended the call when Annabelle’s voice mail picked up. “She didn’t pick up. Just let me— Hey!”
No-Neck had swiped the phone back and replaced it in his pocket. “You said one call. You made your call.”
“I asked if I could call my friend, but she didn’t answer—”
“Not my problem.” And then he ambled away, taking his stupid no neck and working phone with him.
“Are you kidding me?” she called after him, even though she knew he wouldn’t come back even if he heard her.
Wasn’t that great? Here she was, semidrunk, no phone, and having to watch Brandon and his whore eye-bang each other from across a pool table.
“This sucks,” she muttered to herself as she retook her stool at the bar. Her drink was still there, as were her half-eaten onion rings. But at least No-Neck wasn’t there to elbow her anymore.
“Coulda told you not to mess with Big Frank,” the bartender informed her.
Stella propped her elbows on the bar. “Really? That’s his name?” How original.
The guy moved his shoulders. “It’s what we’ve always called him. He’s a loyal customer but ornery as shit.” He pointed to her almost empty Bloody Mary. “You gonna want another?”
She stared at the thing for a moment. Then picked up the glass and downed the last bit. “Sure, why not.”
“You get a hold of your friend?” the guy asked.
“Yeah, she’s coming,” Stella lied. No reason to sound more pathetic than she already looked.
“Because you’re in no condition to drive home.”
She pushed the glass toward him to urge the refill. “So you keep insinuating.”
He snagged the glass with a muttered “whatever.” A few minutes later he replaced it with a full one and left without comment. Smart man.
Sometime later, because Stella had no idea how long she’d been sitting there, she’d finished her third Bloody Mary. Did time go by faster when one was drunk? Because she was pretty sure she was there.
And the reason she knew this was because she kept laughing at the woman at the end of the bar who had barbeque sauce smeared on her cheek. The stain sort of looked like a deformed cat with a missing ear and Stella couldn’t stop staring at the thing. She chuckled again, and some of her drink came up her nose.
Damn, that burned.
And now she had to pee.
Except where were the bathrooms?
“Where are the bathrooms?” she asked the bartender, who kept having the gall to ask her what was wrong. Did it look like something was wrong? Couldn’t a woman get shit-faced by herself without something being wrong with her?
“In the back,” he told her. Then he yanked the glass off the counter. “And you’re officially cut off.”
Hey, just like they said in the movies. Was she cool or what?
Yeah, the coolest.
The bar stool read her mind and tilted to the side in order to help her down, not that she needed help. She almost thanked the thing for its thoughtfulness, then realized it was a freakin’ bar stool.
And wasn’t that funny as shit?