One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [42]
Jennifer laughed at that, because she knew Skeeter’s idea of “fighting” the bar entailed “accidentally” brushing up against a man with her breast, saying excuse-me, then scooting through the gap made when the man turned around.
“I’ll come with you. Maybe we can get a stool.”
Skeeter moved through the crowd like she owned the place, using her hand or breast to part the crowd, depending on gender. When she reached the bar only one man separated her from her goal. Seated on one of the few available stools, he was holding a beer and staring unfocused at the bar top, apparently deep in thought. He was clearly easy pickins, as he was here on his own and probably looking for a date. Skeeter brushed his upper arm with an ample breast and said, “Excuse me, can I get in here?”
Jennifer waited to see his reaction when he saw Skeeter. It was always funny watching a man’s face turn from a normal expression to a drooling mass of testosterone upon looking into her eyes.
In this case, the guy looked up at her with no more expression than if he were talking to a cabdriver. Saying, “Yeah, go ahead,” he scooted over, giving her space at the bar. As Skeeter moved forward he locked eyes with Jennifer, nodded, then returned to his beer. His stare made Jennifer want to take a step back. It wasn’t exactly mean, just annoyed, as if they had interrupted something important. Older than most in the bar, wearing a simple T-shirt and sporting a day-and-a-half beard, he had a white scar that ran through his cheek, charting a path through his stubble.
Skeeter ordered a couple of margaritas and moved back from the bar. “What’s up with that guy? He looked at us like he was wondering if we owed him money. I’ve had more interest paid to me by a transvestite. He’d better watch himself, or he’s going to find himself on the short end of the Skeeter Slam.”
“Come on. Leave him alone. He doesn’t look like someone with a very good sense of humor.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s easier to screw with Tad anyway. Let’s go make those guys drool.”
“Can’t we just stay here? I don’t feel like putting up with Tad’s shit.”
“What’s the big deal? He’s just a blowhard. If he gets obnoxious we can leave. How about—”
Before she could finish, they both heard Tad’s raised voice. He and his little group had surrounded another college student and were in a face-off. She heard Tad telling the student to get the hell out of the bar on his own two feet or leave in an ambulance. Friggin’ great. Now there’s going to be a bar fight. Why did I come out here?
From the other side of the group, the man from the bar suddenly stood up and walked over to Tad, saying, “Leave him alone. He’s been sitting there listening to your shit for a half hour. You’re even.”
Jennifer stared at him, surprised. The penetrating gaze was gone, replaced by an unfocused alcoholic haze. She must have been imagining things, because this guy was clearly drunk. No wonder he hadn’t hit on them. He probably hadn’t even been able to focus on them. She knew that he was in trouble, because Tad would kick his ass just to make his night, and no matter how good a fighter the man might be sober, now he was swaying back and forth and would be lucky to land a punch. Jennifer saw Tad look at the drunk, sizing him up. She could tell that Tad had come to the same conclusion she had.
Tad said, “You know what makes me sick? Shitbags like you who come into the Jammer stinking up the place instead of hanging out at the VFW next door with the rest of the winos.”
With that, he threw a hard right punch, catching the drunk full in the face.
To his credit, the man didn’t fall, but he had no coordination to protect himself. Tad waded in, throwing right after left, almost all of them connecting in one way or another. The drunk staggered back, protecting his face and feebly throwing a succession of worthless jabs that Tad batted away. He finally fell over, whereupon Tad set about kicking him relentlessly in the ribs.
Tad’s sycophant friends wasted no time jumping on the other college student, all of them falling to the