Not that I was complaining. I’d rather that stranger be on my side, as scary as he was.
“Okay.” The man fished out his wallet. For a dizzying moment, I thought he’d give me money for some reason, but he handed me a card instead. This was the first time in our acquaintance that he’d looked directly at me. “You take this. You need anything, you call me, got it? This guy gets handsy, I’ll sort it out, okay? My sister would want me to look after you.”
“I will,” I said meekly. And took the card. I had nowhere to put it, so I held it with my papers and phone.
“What’s your name?” The man pointed at me. I nearly peed myself. He really was a terrifying specimen.
“Delilah,” I said in an embarrassingly shaking voice.
“Delilah. I’m Frank. You use that card. I’m never too drunk to take care of business.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Okay.” The word was like a pressure valve releasing. Frank stepped back, pounding Brad with his hard eyes. He didn’t have to say it, but I heard it all the same: “I’m watching you, Brad.”
We passed him quietly, and after a few moments, Brad said, “I take it that wasn’t the guy you told you had herpes?”
My laugh was more a wheeze riddled with anxiety. “No. He was pretty cool when I talked to him, actually. I didn’t know that was coming.”
“You are quick to charm people.”
“Yeah, right. Ms. Congeniality.”
“Here, there’s a bar just here. Unless you want me to take you back to your hotel?” He threw up his hands. “Just to get you there. Not to betray Frank’s trust.”
“A drink to end the night sounds good. Still my round, after all.”
“No. You owe me a few rounds, at least. I’ve got you on the homie fund.”
“The what?”
His shapely lips turned up into a smile. “The homie fund. You spot someone without expecting reimbursement. But the next time you need something, they’ll get your back.”
“What if your homie is a taker, and she never gets you back?”
“Then she isn’t your homie.” Brad steered me around a slow-moving old couple before glancing down at my feet. “Let me know if I’m going too fast.”
“Jeez. It’s not that bad.”
“Looks that bad. Those shoes would trip up a clown.”
“That’s who they were made for.”
“Nah. Too small. Just here.” He pressed on my middle back with the slightest of pressure, directing me toward a restaurant. At the host, Brad half muttered and half motioned toward the bar area off to the left.
As I was settling onto a stool, Frank’s card broke free and fluttered to the ground. Brad bent to retrieve it and then placed it on the bar next to my phone. “You should enter in that number so you don’t lose it.”
“Is that your subtle way of telling me you plan to take me out back and slit my throat? You know, just to give me a fighting chance?”
“He was genuine, and you don’t know when you’ll need a friend in your corner.” The joking tone had dripped away from his words. He sat down beside me with a serious face. “There are a lot of hotheads here this weekend. They’re running around all over the place. I’d hate to think you wouldn’t have anyone else to call if you couldn’t get a hold of me.”
“A hold of you?” Butterflies surged through my stomach. It was kind of a sweet thing to say.
Embarrassment flashed across his face for the briefest of moments, so fast I almost thought I’d imagined it. His lips pulled to the side in a half-grin. “I can’t let Frank out-gentleman me. C’mon.” He shrugged.
“Well, O cardless wonder, it’ll be hard to beat Frank without—” I cut myself off and took up Frank’s card. Pleasant tendrils of heat wormed through my blood, and it wasn’t all from tequila. If I had Brad’s number, I might get the Fire Down Below and drunk-text a booty call. That was not the way. I didn’t know the way, but I knew that was not it.
After inputting Frank’s number, I analyzed the card. Breaking the silence that had followed my half-finished comment, I said, “Bricklayer. I didn’t realize bricklayers had cards.”
“Maybe he owns the company.”
“Maybe…”
“Maybe he piles the bricks on top of the bodies he buries.”
“Getting warmer…”
“That guy was intense.” Brad laughed and signaled the bartender. When he came over, Brad said, “A dry gin martini with a twist in a short glass and a margarita on the rocks, no salt.”
“Ordering cocktails like a boss, huh?”
“I’m usually a beer man, but I hate being an individual. You’re drinking cocktails. Hence, I have to drink cocktails, albeit in a manly way.”
“Which is why you don’t want a martini glass?”
“Part of the reason.” He reached over and snatched up my phone.
“Hey,” I said.