One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [43]
Tad shook her off, intent on continuing the assault. Jennifer threw herself onto the man, shielding his body with hers. Tad stopped, looking at her in a murderous rage as if he was considering kicking her as well. Instead, he made a hasty exit out the back onto the deck. In seconds, the bouncers had control of the other fight and proceeded to escort the offenders to the door.
Jennifer helped the bloodied, pathetic fighter to his feet, talking to the bouncer headed their way. “I have him. I’ll get him out of here.”
“You’d better. Before I have him arrested.”
She didn’t know why, but she began leading him out of the bar, apologizing to the bartender as she walked. Maybe she saw herself on the floor four years ago. Maybe she just wanted an excuse to leave. Maybe this just wasn’t such a great idea. . . .
Skeeter ran over to her. “Where are you going? You didn’t do anything! You need to stay. All the assholes are gone now and the music hasn’t even started.”
“Skeeter, I appreciate it, but I’m no longer in the mood. I’m going to get this guy wherever he needs to go and head on back to the condo for some sleep. I’ll pack up and go home tomorrow.”
Skeeter watched her leave. Another sorority sister asked, “Where’s she going with that loser? Is she desperate? She can do better than him.”
Looking at her friend, Skeeter replied, “She’s just saving another lost puppy. Like every other time this happens, that puppy is going to end up doing nothing but peeing on her floor. I’ve seen his type. He’ll give her nothing but grief.”
26
Jennifer led the man to her car, a beat-up Mazda RX-7, which she had left at the end of Ocean Boulevard. He shuffled along a half a step behind her, making no effort to talk. She asked him repeated questions, but he just mumbled in response. She couldn’t even get him to tell her his name. Great. He really is a drunk. Maybe I’ll just give him some change and point him to the nearest park bench. When they finally got to her car, he attempted to wave her off, saying he was fine and could get home on his own. She was surprised by the sudden apparent sobriety. He was no longer swaying, and his eyes were fairly clear, although it was hard to tell with the swelling. What was with this guy? He was a drunk one minute, and sober the next? Why fake being drunk?
She said, “Look, don’t act like you’re putting me out. You’re really doing me a favor. If you go off on your own, I’ll have no excuse for not going back in there. I’m headed home anyway, so you might as well let me give you a ride—that is unless you live somewhere other than the Isle of Palms. I’m not running a taxi service to Charleston.”
“I live at the marina, but I don’t need a ride. My bike is down the street. I’m sober enough to drive.”
“Are you nuts? Even if you were stone-cold sober, you’d probably wreck from the beating. Come on. I’m offering a ride for free. No strings attached.”
“I don’t need a ride. Worst case, I’ll just walk. It will do me some good.”
The penetrating gaze was back, forcing her to glance away.
“Walk? It’s like five miles away. Quit bitching and get in.”
He closed the gap between her and the car. With the car preventing her from moving away, he leaned into her personal space.
“Why do you feel compelled to help me out? You don’t know anything about me. The world is full of monsters, why do you think you’re immune from them? Do you think that just because you made some pathetic attempt at ‘helping’ me out I won’t rape you? How long do you think it would have taken the bouncers to get to me? About a half second after you did? Don’t flatter yourself.