by Adore Ian
“Today we’re learning about chokeholds,” Holly says. “There are different ways an assailant can put you in a chokehold—all of which we’ll go over. But one of the most important things to remember is to tuck your chin. Tucking your chin to your chest before anyone can get an arm around your neck will protect your airway and help buy you time to get away.”
She goes on a bit more before asking me to help demonstrate. We verbally establish consent then I come up behind her and wrap an arm around her neck.
“When I don’t tuck my chin,” Holly says, “Damian has a lot more control over the situation doesn’t he?”
The students nod and agree.
“I’m also a lot more prone to panicking because I can’t breathe. I can still get out of the chokehold if my chin isn’t tucked, but every little thing we can do to prevent ourselves from panicking is going to help.”
We spend the rest of class going over different holds, and when we’re done for the day, I stay behind and spar with Holly. By the end of an hour I’m sweaty and gross and in desperate need of a shower. I’m also in desperate need of Marrin.
Marrin
At five o’clock on Sunday night, I head into work.
I’m a bartender at my cousin Alice’s bar, the Braxton Arcade. It’s a vintage arcade bar dedicated to all things nerd.
The bar top is a collage of carefully pieced together comic book clippings set with epoxy to give it a smooth, glossy finish. The display case behind the bar holds everything from Gundam figurines to a signed copy of the first Pretty Deadly comic book, to an actual piece of Hal from Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey. Displayed along the walls are rare Mondo prints and cult classic movie posters. My favorite is a replica of an original poster from the film Double Indemnity. It’s probably my favorite film, not just because Barbara Stanwyck is a goddess, but her character, Phyllis Dietrichson, is a badass femme fatale who knew her only way out of a shit marriage was to manipulate the hapless Walter Neff. She played the cards the patriarchy dealt her. Can’t fault a girl for that.
The film also helped inspire our newest themed night: Film Noir Thursday.
Themed nights are big at the bar and none during the school year is more well-attended than Sunday night when we play The Walking Dead on the projector. It’s a popular event in this college town.
Tonight I’m working with Elle and Conor. Conor’s carding at the door and Elle’s at the bar with me.
Elle is short with dark eyes and long dark hair. She’s a good bartender who tends to keep to herself, but there’s something about her, like she’s always watching or alert. Like a rabbit maybe.
If Elle is a cute woodland creature, then Conor is a scary-as-hell junkyard dog. His physical prowess does the talking for him. He’s large, corded with muscle and has a few well-placed tattoos inked across his bronze skin. On any given night, he’s sporting an array of bruises on his face. I’m not stupid enough to ask how he gets them. Unlike Elle and I, Conor is not a student. He’s a few years older and works full time for Alice wherever she needs him.
For a few hours, everything goes smoothly. Then at about half past eight, over two hundred pounds of blond-haired blue-eyed trouble walks in. Jake. He’s tall, muscled and tattooed.
Jake grew up in the same inner-city neighborhood as me, but unlike me, he never made it out. He dropped out of high school and started working construction. He’s good at what he does, but he runs with a rough crowd. He’s been in and out of trouble for years, and as much as I hate to admit it, he’s kind of a friend. We dated in high school, and although he’s now as sleazy as they come, he wasn’t back then. I suppose he was technically my first love.
He takes a seat at the bar. “Hello ladies.”
Elle’s deep gold skin heats with a thread of irritation. She frowns at me as if to say, Are you going to get rid of him or should I?
“I got it,” I whisper, switching sides of the bar with her. “Hey, Jake. You want the usual?” I reach for a bottle of whiskey.
“You always knew me better than anyone.” He eyes me up and down and I fight the urge to projectile vomit.
I never wear super revealing clothing to work, but I do try to look sexy. It brings in tips. Tonight I have on high-waisted jeans paired with a black tank that’s cropped to reveal a few inches of midriff. And of course, I’m wearing a push-up bra.
I pour Jake a double and set it on the bar. He smells like booze and cheap cigarettes.
“Keep it open?” I ask, taking his credit card.
Please say no.
“Yes.” And from the way he slurs and the flush staining his white cheeks, I can already tell he’s drunk.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I hate when he comes in here to get drunk—or more drunk in this case. He usually gets obstinate, usually leers at the female customers, and I always feel as if it’s somehow my responsibility to make sure he gets home okay. I know I don’t owe him anything. We haven’t been friend friends in years. But still…
He was the only one who came to help me that night two years ago. The only one in that shit neighborhood who’d cared that I was screaming—
I don’t want to think about it. Don’t want to think about why I feel like I owe him.
Lucky for me, the bar begins to fill with locals and students coming in to watch The Walking Dead, and we get so busy I can’t think about anything other than bartending.
I mix a soda and vodka, not bothering to look up at the next customer before asking for their order.
“I don’t know, what’s good?” purrs a familiar voice.
I hand over the mixed drink then look up to see Damian. He’s smiling in that charming way of his, and my stomach does a backflip. Why? Because that smile is now reserved for me. And I know that makes no sense because I don’t want a boyfriend. The absolute last thing I need is a boyfriend complicating my already complicated life. But damn if the idea of a little normalcy doesn’t give me butterflies.
Ugh. Marrin. Stop. You can take care of yourself. You’ve been doing it for years.
I catch myself, remembering where I am. All my friends are standing right behind Damian, and Jake is perched five feet down the bar.
I school my features and take his credit card. “What are you in the mood for?”
Vicky shoves past him. “Because Dame is buying, I’ll have whatever beer on tap doesn’t objectify women in their advertising. Jayce, Dame, and Hayden will have the darkest beer you’ve got on tap, and Tiana will take the usual.”
I glance at Damian, who motions that it’s okay to put the drinks on his tab.
“Top shelf?” I ask Tiana before reaching for the nicest bottle of tequila.
She dips her chin, her brown skin absorbing the pink glow from a neon sign near the bar. “That’s me. And in a wine glass, please.”
I chuckle. Tiana has always been too fancy for our friend group. Sometimes I have no idea how we’d managed to convince her we were worthy of her time. She’s supermodel pretty and her family is loaded. Her mom’s a notable attorney and her dad’s probably going to be our next governor. They’re rich and connected.
The exact opposite of my family.
Fifteen minutes after I serve my friends, Elle turns on the projector and the show starts. A few people play games, but almost everyone sits at the high tables down the middle of the room or at the bar to watch. Elle and I take the opportunity to relax and clean up a bit. I’m restocking beer glasses when my phone buzzes. It’s charging on the counter behind the bar near the register.
Turning my back on the room, I pick it up and check the message.
Damian: To your left.
As casually as possible, I slide my eyes to the left edge of the bar top where there aren’t any stools because it’d potentially cut off access to the fire exit. Damian’s standing there, a panty-dropping smile on his face. He’s wearing an expensive-looking jacket over a simple white V-neck that reveals the hint of a tattoo. The evidence of summer sun lingers on him like wet
after rain. His dark hair is an utter mess around his face—just the way I like it.
I try not to look too eager as I pad over and lean my elbows on the bar, pushing up my cleavage.
“Hello, Sir,” I say, in a voice too low to be overheard.
“Hello, Red.”
“Red?”
He sips his beer, eyes settling on my cleavage. Something hungry passes through them. My core tightens. His eyes are so light their color depends on what he’s wearing. Sometimes they’re blue, sometimes they’re hazel, and sometimes they’re brown. It all depends.
“I’ve decided,” he says, slowly dragging his eyes to mine, “that if you’re going to call me Sir, then I’m going to call you Red.”
“Oh?”
“Mhmm.”
“And why is that?”
He gives a low chuckle. “I think you know why.”
My body heats, remembering the look in his eyes when he found my red panties in his pocket, the way he took me against the door after.
He swallows thickly, as if remembering the exact same thing. “When do y—”
“Not here,” I whisper, motioning to the crowded room with a tilt of my head. He pulls out his phone. A second later, mine buzzes behind me.
Damian: When do you get off?
Marrin: Whenever you’re ready to help me. Or after we close at 2 A.M.
He chuckles.
Damian: Get your mind out of the gutter. And 2? It’s a school night :(
Marrin: You’re the one staring at my tits. And bars close at 2 around here. I don’t make the rules.
I walk back over, idly wiping down the bar in front of him. “I suppose it’s convenient that we live in the same building,” he says.
“Why?”
“So I can lend a hand when you”—he leans in—“get off.”
Liquid heat pools in my core, and I know he can tell because he sips his beer with a stupid, satisfied look on his face.
Two people can play this game.
I lean forward, pushing my breasts together and commanding his space like an SUV in a compact parking spot, ready to tell him exactly what I want him to do with those hands—
“Braxton,” Jake barks. “Put your stripper tits away and get me another drink. This ain’t your city job.” He says it loud enough for nearly everyone in the quiet bar to hear. A few customers shush him and several turn to see who he’s talking to.
Embarrassment and anger flood my body and I swear my blood begins to boil in my veins. Taking a deep breath and not daring a look at Damian, I prowl over to Jake. I snatch his empty glass as Elle waves off Conor, who’s started walking over.
“One more outburst and you’re out. You know the rules,” I say as low and vicious as possible, not wanting to make a scene.
He chuckles. “More whiskey.”
I turn my back to grab the whiskey and dare to glance at Damian. His eyes are alert, assessing as they flicker between Jake and me—as if he’s already sized up Jake and knows exactly where he’ll strike to bring him down. I shake my head once, warning him to stay out of it.
“Ah-ha,” Jake says. “Now I get it.” He points a finger between Damian and me. “You two are fuckin’.”
I don’t look at Damian. Not when that’s what Jake wants, and not when all our friends are around.
I snort derisively and set his whiskey on the bar. He can have this one then I’m calling him a cab.
“Jake,” I say, letting out some of the inner-city accent I try so hard to hide. “You and I both know I don’t date.”
He sips his drink. “That’s right. Miss college girl is too good to date any of us, but not good enough for any of them.”
I swallow hard. His us refers to my old neighborhood and them refers to my new university friends. Where I come from isn’t a secret, but it’s not something I advertise either.
“Don’t forget,” he continues, “I still remember what that sweet ass tastes like. When these rich bitches realize you ain’t good enough for them, I’ll take you back. I still remember how you like—”
“Jake,” I snarl.
I’m halfway to signaling Conor to escort Jake outside when his voice grows low and somber. “The old man’s been asking about you.”
Everything stops.
I blink.
And blink again as his words hit my ears, my brain. They register and it’s as if my brain has to reboot from a power outage.
“Anniversary is coming up,” he slurs. His eyes dip to where my hand has unknowingly pressed against my lower stomach. I feel hot. Too hot. Don’t want to think about the screaming now echoing in my head or why the sweat on my hands feels like blood—
“Leave her alone.”
I snap to the present, realizing Damian has just spoken and that he’s now standing next to Jake.
Shit.
Jake laughs, sizing Damian up. “Looky here. Pretty Boy’s got some balls.”
Behind them, Jayce, Vicky, Tiana, and Hayden all stand up and start heading over.
“Thanks for noticing,” Damian says sarcastically, fingers beneath his chin. “I am quite pretty, aren’t I? But enough about me. Why don’t you leave her alone, man? Clearly you’re making her uncomfortable.”
Jake knocks back his drink. “He’s got spunk, too.”
“Enough,” I hiss, signaling Conor. “You’re done.”
He ignores me and stands—practically chest-to-chest with Damian. And unless Damian has some unique fighting skills, he’s about to get his ass kicked. Jake’s got a few inches and about fifty pounds of muscle on him.
I remove the glasses from the bar as Conor comes over. His eyes flicker to Elle, who I’m faintly aware is standing behind me, trembling hand fisted in my shirt.
“Damian,” I warn. “Touch him and I’ll throw you out, too.”
He looks affronted but I ignore it. He isn’t my boyfriend, and I don’t need him fighting my battles. If he wants to trade punches with Jake for being a jackass, fine by me. But not at my work while I’m in charge. The last thing I want is to explain to Alice why I had to call the cops.
“Jake, I’m calling you a cab.” I grab the retro bar phone and dial the driving service we use. They’re fast, trustworthy, and they don’t ask questions. Alice pays a retainer to use the company for her businesses. I’m not sure why she has a driving service on payroll and I’m not about to ask. All I know is we’re to use it sparingly and to prevent situations that could involve cops.
Elle closes out Jake’s tab and hands me his card. I round the bar as Conor grabs Jake’s arm to steady him. He’s drunker than I’d thought.
“Vicky,” he slurs as Conor steers him to the door.
“Jake,” she replies.
Outside, Conor sits Jake on a bench by the curb. I tuck his credit card inside his wallet then hand him a bottled water.
“You were always too good for us,” he murmurs to me.
I don’t have an answer for that. So I just stand there until the cab pulls up. When it does, I tip the driver and make sure he has the correct address, then they’re gone.
I stand on the curb with Conor, rubbing the back of my neck. I have no idea how much damage control I might have to do with my friends, but the thought stresses me out. I feel anxious, jittery.
My eyes fall on an old red truck parked across the street and it feels like all the blood in my body drains to my feet. Conor must notice because he says, “It belongs to one of our regulars. Guy named Kevin.”
I take a deep breath and realize the make, model, and license plate are wrong. It’s not the red truck I thought it was.
God, what’s wrong with you, Marrin? Since when are you so paranoid?
“Want me to call Alice?” Conor says. It is, after all, Alice’s bar, and anytime we use the cab service, we notify her. Only I’m pretty sure that’s not what Conor meant. He’d no doubt heard what Jake said.
Conor has worked for Alice for years. He’s a trusted bouncer and bodyguard at her club in the city. He was
also my bodyguard for a few months after everything happened freshman year. He knows more about me than I’d care to admit.
“No, I’ll tell her. Tomorrow… maybe.”
“I’m telling her the next time I see her, so figure it out.”
Sighing, I walk back inside.
With a pleasant look plastered to my face, I round the bar. Vicky’s already running interference and I could kiss her. I hear her explaining in a roundabout way how Jake knows her name. She says they met at the Braxton one evening—which, truthfully, isn’t a lie. It’s just not exactly the truth.
Vicky has met a drunk Jake at the Braxton many times. But the reason he remembers her name is because he’s met her sober. It was only once but the situation had been dire enough that he remembers her. It was the fall semester of our freshman year of college—
And that’s about as much as I want to think about it.
What I’d rather think about is Damian Wane. He’s sitting on a stool next to Vicky, brooding. I’m not sure what to do. Emotions are not my thing. Conversations about emotions are even less my thing.
So I open a bottle of his favorite beer and set it on the bar. “Thanks for not pounding Jake even though he deserved it.”
He accepts my offering with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your wish is my command.”
I realize then that Damian isn’t brooding over what Jake said to him, he’s brooding over what Jake said to me.
I clean up behind the bar then move around the room collecting empties and trash. When I get back, Damian still has that look on his face.
Ugh. Why are guys so complicated?
Fine. I’ll admit it was hot as hell that Damian got all alpha male on Jake ready to defend my honor. Just thinking about it has my lady bits tingling. A part of me desperately craves that kind of devotion. I want someone I can rely on, someone I can trust to keep me safe, who will always put me first.
The problem is Jake is a jackass. He’d love nothing more than to ruin everything I’ve built by publicly spilling details about my past in an effort to remind me that he and I are the same breed of white trash, from the same neighborhood, and just because I got into a good school doesn’t mean I’m better than him. And I don’t feel better than him—or anyone. But I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am and I won’t let him, or anyone, ruin what I’ve built.
