by R. R. Banks
I do a good job of containing it most of the time, but when assholes like these two push me, it becomes almost impossible to keep the monster in its cage.
I stand up straighter, staring the bald one in the eye. “You and your boyfriend here,” I say through gritted teeth, “are going to walk the fuck out of this bar right now.”
Baldy steps closer to me, puffing up his chest, thinking he can intimidate me with his sheer size. I stare into his face, feeling an amused smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. I don't want to fight, but that doesn't mean I'm afraid to.
“That so?” baldy asks.
I stare down at the man through narrowed eyes. “Not only that,” I say, my voice low, “you and your boyfriend here are never going to set foot in here again. Trash like you doesn't belong in a place like this.”
“Who the fuck you callin' trash?” the second man growls.
“Pretty sure he just called us trash,” baldy says, staring at me with a feral smile, as if he's looking forward to getting into a fight.
“You're not as dumb as you look,” I say. “Congratulations. Now, get the fuck out of here.”
“Fuck you,” baldy snaps.
“Such cutting wit,” I say dryly. “I'm sure you make all the folks down at MENSA laugh their asses off.”
Trey, having finally caught his breath, says something completely unintelligible that makes the two men in front of me howl with laughter. I turn quickly and shove him into the booth behind him. He sits down and then falls onto his back on the seat, obviously having no idea where he is or how he got there. I turn back to the two men, the anger burning bright within me.
“We're done here,” I say. “Get the fuck out. Now.”
The air in the bar is silent and still, the atmosphere electric and humming with anticipation – the proverbial calm before the storm. No one speaks and although the other customers are all trying to pretend they're not looking at us, they can't help themselves and make it completely obvious they're watching closely.
“Yeah, I don't think that's gonna happen,” baldy says. “We came in here for a drink –”
“There's another bar right down the street,” I say, looking them up and down dismissively. “I think they're better equipped to deal with – your kind.”
“My kind?” baldy snaps.
“Yeah, what the fuck's that supposed to mean?” the second guy asks.
I give them another up and down look of appraisal and scoff. “Do I really need to spell it out for you?”
“Hey, go fuck yourself,” baldy snaps.
“There's that razor-sharp wit backed up by an oh-so-powerful intellect,” I say.
Baldy steps up so that we're practically nose-to-nose, staring into each other's eyes. The tension in the bar ratchets up another few levels and I'm starting to think there is no way I'm going to avoid a physical confrontation with this assclown.
“I'm gonna fuck you up, asshole,” baldy growls.
“Walk away,” I say, standing taller.
“Oh, I'll walk away, alright,” he says. “When you're on the ground spittin' up blood and teeth.”
“Last chance,” I say. “Walk away right now.”
The bar around us is so silent that you can hear the proverbial pin drop. The air is so thick with tension I'm practically choking on it. But I'm not going to back down from this piece of garbage. I don't back down from anybody. The man raises his hand, pointing his finger at me and opens his mouth to say something. He's obviously not going to walk away from this without being taught a lesson first.
Moving with lightning-fast speed, I grab his hand and bend it backward painfully. I spin him around and wrench his arm up behind his back. He howls in agony as I twist his wrist into an awkward position and grab the back of his head. With one swift movement, I slam his head down onto the bar. The crack of his skull meeting the wood echoes through the place like a gunshot.
Releasing his hand, I give the man a push and he falls onto his hands and knees, moaning in pain. I'd opened a gash on his forehead and blood is running down his face, making his visage a gruesome sight. His friend stands there like he's frozen, doing nothing but staring at me.
“Like I said, asshole, we're done here,” I say. “Take your friend and get the fuck out. Now.”
The greasy-haired man bends down and helps his friend to his feet, scarcely taking his eyes off me the entire time. He puts an arm around baldy's shoulders and helps him out of the bar. I watch them go, every step of the way, until the door swings closed behind them. I turn back to find the other patrons and the bartender staring at me with wide eyes.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
I pull my wallet out of my pocket, dropping a few hundred dollars bills on the bar and looking around.
“The next round is on me, folks,” I say.
Turning around, I help Trey out of the booth. He looks around like he's just waking up from a nap and has no idea where he is. I put my arm around his shoulder, much like the greasy-haired guy had just done to baldy and help Trey out of the bar.
I walk him across the parking lot and to my car, using the remote to unlock it. I hold him up as I open the door. Maneuvering two-hundred pounds of limp man is no easy task, but I finally manage to pour Trey into the passenger seat of my car. He looks up at me, glassy-eyed, with a goofy, drunken grin on his face.
“You know I love you, don't you, bro?” he slurs.
“I do,” I say. “And you know I love you too.”
“We're like brothers, you and me.”
I nod. “That we are.”
Trey looks at me and I see his eyes light up, the grin on his face growing even goofier and more drunk looking. I can tell that an idea popped into that alcohol-soaked brain of his.
“Hey, let's get out of here for a few days,” he says. “Let's go to Vegas, man. Let's go blow off some steam and get ourselves laid. Like, a lot. No better way to forget one chick than to be balls deep in another one, am I right?”
I laugh and shake my head. “As tempting as that sounds,” I say, “I've got some meetings tomorrow I can't miss. Sorry, brother.”
His face falls and the goofy grin turns into a pouting frown. “Man, this sucks.”
“I know it does, Trey,” I say. “It's late though, and I should probably get you home.”
I close the passenger side door and walk around to the driver's side, climbing in behind the wheel. Trey is already passed out and drooling on himself by the time I fire up the engine on my BMW i6. The engine roars to life as I pull out of the parking lot, on my way to take my very inebriated best friend to the house where he caught his girl blowing another guy.
The only saving grace is that he kicked her out and she thankfully won’t be there. But still, the nasty hangover he’s bound to have, combined with the depression of all the memories weighing down on him, is going to suck for him.
Yeah, I wouldn't want to be Trey in the morning.
Chapter Three
Holly
“I can't believe that,” I say and laugh.
“Tell me about it,” Gabby replies.
Her eyes are wide – as if she still in disbelief over what she just told me. Hell, I can't believe what she just told me. Though, I shouldn't be all that surprised. Men are pigs.
“So, what did you tell him?” I ask.
A wry laugh escapes her throat. “I told him that just because he took me out for a nice dinner, that doesn't entitle him a trip into my panties,” she says.
“Good for you,” I say. “What a creep.”
“You're not lying.”
Gabby is another teacher at the Gilmore Academy, the school I teach at. She has also been my best friend since our own days at prep school. She's a gorgeous woman – tall, blonde, thin. She looks like she could be doing spreads in Victoria's Secret catalogs or something. But more than that, she's intelligent. Fierce. And often, very outspoken.
She's a woman who turns heads when she walks into a room – something that I se
cretly envy – but most of the men she's dated seem to have a problem with her independent, fiery spirit, and take-no-shit attitude. It's one of the things I love most about her. Something I admire and try to emulate, if I'm being honest. Gabby is an amazing woman – but one who, because she's so beautiful and feminine, men constantly underestimate.
We're enjoying a lazy brunch at one of our favorite cafes that's a little off the beaten path here in Denver. It's a place the locals know and love and have for years. The sun is shining and though chilly, it's not unreasonable for the time of year. In fact, for being early October, it's downright pleasant.
We're celebrating the first day of our time off. The Gilmore Academy, our employer, is off-track for the next four weeks. It's a setup I enjoy quite a bit. It's on a year-round system, with no formal summer break like more traditional schools – like Gabby and I had growing up.
But, the Gilmore Academy prides itself on its innovative approach to teaching. And one of those innovations is the on-track, off-track school year. When on-track, we're in the classroom for three months, and then have a month off. On for three months, four weeks off. Wash, rinse, repeat.
It's a nice schedule and one that works well for me. I appreciate it even more when I can sleep in a bit and have a long, lazy brunch with my best friend.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He thought he was so smooth,” she said. “He asked me if dessert would earn him that trip.”
“And?” I ask, arching an eyebrow at her. “Did it?”
She slaps my hand playfully and laughs. “No!” she says. “What kind of a woman do you think I am?”
“Oh, I know exactly what kind you are,” I laugh. “I saw the man's picture and he's gorgeous.”
“Well, for your information,” she says. “No, I did not give it up.”
“Not until your next date, huh?”
“If he buys me a nice dinner and a nicer dessert, maybe,” she says. “I did buy a new negligee and I'd hate to see it sit there unused.”
“I doubt it would be for very long,” I say and laugh, despite my horror at the man's boldness.
Truth be told, Gabby likes a guy that’s a little more on the forward side. She likes her men bold and aggressive. Alphas. It’s not really my style, but she's got the sort of personality that's equipped to handle it better than I can. I've never been one for the whole, alpha-male, manly-man kind of a guy. I guess I like my guys to be softer. A little – nicer. And a whole lot less presumptuous than the men Gabby typically dates.
Which probably explains my distinct lack of dates over the last couple of years. My last serious relationship lasted three years – and then ended in a flaming pile of debris. I found out Todd was cheating on me. Actually, he was cheating on me all three years we were together. Which, of course, made me feel not just like a total loser, but an absolute idiot too.
It took me a long time to get over feeling like I'm not enough for somebody. And that I'm a moron for not seeing it sooner. Everything about my relationship with Todd only served to flame my insecurities and self-doubts – two things that had crippled me in my younger days. Things that took me years to overcome. Not that I completely overcame them, but I have learned to manage them a bit better over the years.
Those self-doubts and insecurities come from an overbearing father and a brother who ran me down every chance he got. My mother died when I was very young, so there was no buffer between me and them. I know my father did the best that he could for me, but he kept me under his thumb from the time I was a kid until I moved out.
Truthfully, even though I'm out on my own and establishing myself in my chosen career – which is something I love doing – my father still tries to keep me under his control. Starting with the fact that he thought I never should have left his home or started working on my career. If he had his way, I'd still be living in his house, by his rules, and wouldn't be teaching. Wouldn't be doing the thing that's my passion. What brings me joy and fulfillment.
No, if my father had his way, I'd be working in an administrative capacity in his construction company. He's a good man, just a hard man. He's old school. My father is an overbearing and overprotective man. He always thinks he knows what's best for me and tries to bend me to his will.
Which, of course, only makes me fight even harder to do the exact opposite of what he wants. It's almost a reflex by now. My father says black, I say white. He says up, I say down. That reaction has caused more than a little tension between us over the years. It's not because I don't love or respect my father – I just don't like being told what to do and what not to do. Our relationship, suffice it to say, is complicated.
My phone buzzes on the table next to me and when I glance at the ID, I roll my eyes and let out a long sigh. It's as if merely thinking of the devil made the devil himself appear.
“Dear old dad, huh?” Gabby asks, a rueful grin on her face.
“Unfortunately.”
She shrugs. “Just don't answer it then,” she says. “It's not like you're required by law to answer every time he calls.”
I reach out for my phone and then pull my hand back. She's right. I don't have to speak to him right now if I don't want to. It's not a requirement. It's not a law. But then, I also know that act of defiance will have some consequences attached to it.
My father is a master manipulator who knows how to play on my guilt and my loyalty to the family to make me feel like the worst daughter ever conceived at times. He knows how to play me like a damn fiddle. And whenever I displease him, he does just that.
All the while, my brother Ian continues to be the golden child who can do no wrong. That long-running sibling rivalry has only added to the strain I sometimes feel between my father and me. It's frustrating that Ian is the chosen one and that my father dotes on him as much as he does. Ian always got all the breaks and the favored treatment. He still does. And it irks me to no end.
Which is one of the reasons I decided long ago to chart my own course, make my own path, and try to live my life on my terms. Given my father’s power of manipulation, I don’t always succeed, but I do my best.
“You know what? You're right,” I say and press the end button, sending the call to voicemail. “It's not a law.”
Gabby smiles wide and raises her mimosa. “To little acts of defiance.”
“To living my own life.”
We clink glasses and take a drink. I savor the champagne and orange juice as it hits my tongue and I can't help but think it tastes even better than usual right now.
“Hey, you know what we should do?” Gabby asks as she sets her glass back down, her eyes lighting up as if she'd just had the best idea ever.
“What's that?”
“Get out of here for a few days,” she says. “A girl's weekend away. Let's just pack a bag and blow town. Come on, what do you say?”
My phone buzzes again and I frown when I look down at it, seeing my father calling. Again. Though, the fact that he's calling me back so quickly makes me wonder if something's wrong. Not giving myself time to think about it, I quickly hit the end button and send it straight to voicemail again.
I sigh. “If only.”
“Why not?” she asks. “We're off-track for a couple of weeks. We've got time.”
Honestly, the idea of skipping town and getting away for a few days sounds heavenly. And there's a big part of me that wants to throw caution to the wind and just do it. But that other voice, the annoyingly practical one that resides in the back of my head, nixes the idea before I can begin to warm to it.
“I have too much to do,” I say meekly.
“You do?” Gabby asks. “Like what?”
My phone buzzes yet again. He usually leaves me a voicemail and only if I haven't called him back in an hour –at most –he will call back and leave me passive-aggressive, guilt-inducing message. The fact that he's called three times in rapid succession like that has me somewhat concerned.
I sigh. “I should probably take this,�
�� I say. “Make sure the world isn't ending or something.”
Gabby says nothing, but sips her mimosa and takes another bite of her crepes. I look at the phone for another moment, like it's a coiled snake, ready to strike, and briefly consider rejecting the call again. But, being the dutiful daughter – or maybe just the schmuck – that I am, I pick it up and connect the call.
“Yes, father?” I ask.
“Why didn’t you answer the first time?”
Obviously, there's not a three-alarm fire anywhere or a giant meteor about to crash into the planet. Not if his first concern is that I sent his call to voicemail. Obviously, he's just annoyed that I did it, and wants me to dance while he pulls the strings. Again.
“I'm out with a friend,” I say. “What do you want, father?”
“How about you show me some respect, Holly?” he snaps. “How about a little common courtesy?”
I can tell by the sound of his voice that he's tense. Anxious. Stressed out. And when he gets that way, he tends to lash out. Just like this. When he's under the most pressure, he tries to exert all the control he has – which is usually focused on me. He tries to control what I say, what I do, who I see – it's been that way since I was young. It hasn't really gotten all that much better now that I'm older and making my own way.
I sigh and shake my head. “I'm sorry,” I say. “Are you okay, Dad?”
“I'm fine,” he replies gruffly. “I just don't understand why you're always so hostile to me.”
“I'm not being hostile, Dad,” I say. “I'm having brunch with Gabby and I'd really rather not have this conversation right now. Now, what can I do for you?”
He's silent on the other end of the line for a moment and I can tell he's building up steam. His silence is usually the proverbial calm before the storm. And if there's one thing my father knows how to do, it's throw a damn fit. He can be incredibly scary when he's angry, and although he's never laid so much as a finger on me, there have been plenty of times in my life when he was so livid, I feared he might.
