Page 20 of A Stop in Time
It helps that I own and run a salvage yard and am usually covered in grease and oil most days. I’m always in jeans, a T-shirt, and my steel-toed boots, while I sometimes add my ball cap to the mix. But you get the idea. I’m not exactly inspiring wet dreams for the entire male population.
Randy’s chair screeches against the concrete bar floor, signaling his approach. His footsteps are unsteady, and when he knocks into a nearby chair at another table, his friends bust out laughing. It’s pretty fucking sad that he’s already this hammered considering the sun hasn’t even fully set.
“Five. Four. Three.” I mumble the countdown beneath my breath. “Two. One.”
“Just put a bag over her head so you don’t hafta look at her!” one of his friends calls out. Hoots of laughter follow.
I barely resist the urge to tug my ball cap lower and ensure my hair forms a curtain of concealment of the left side of my face.
I hate that these fuckers’ comments still get to me. I shouldn’t let them. Most of them still live with their moms and wouldn’t know how to work a washing machine if their life depended on it. I’m an independent business owner without any debt, and I have a full set of nice, white teeth.
The latter is important since Randy and his friends smoke unfiltered cigarettes and haven’t seen a dentist for a cleaning since kindergarten. If you pull out a brown crayon, that’d be the lovely shade of their teeth.
His approach has me steeling my spine as irritation flows through my veins. Fucking hell. All I wanted to do was get a drink in peace. The last thing I need is Randy pissing up a rope when I turn him down. Yet again.
Oh, and another lovely character trait about him? He’s a fucking sore loser who hates hearing the word no. Anytime Benny cuts him off when this asshole’s so drunk he’s barely able to stand upright, it turns into an absolute shit show.
When I, the girl with the scarred face, refuse the ever so lovely offer of his cock, it morphs into an even bigger one.
The shit show, that is. Not his cock.
His boots plod toward me in loud thunks, and I toss back the rest of my whiskey. Anger swirls inside me at having my evening tainted by this bullshit.
“Hey, Mac.” A beefy arm drops heavily on the bar top beside my empty glass. Instantly, I’m assaulted by the stench of body odor and stale cigarettes intermixed with a toxic dose of cologne he’s used in an attempt to conceal his unwashed body.
“Jesus, Randy.” I turn my head away, the pungent assault on my senses causing me to cough. “Maybe tone it down a bit on the cologne.”
He leans in closer. “You know you like it.”
I pin him with a harsh glare that would have most men with even a lick of sense backing off.
Not Randy, though. Nope.
He puffs out his chest, but that only brings more attention to his potbelly that stretches the stained fabric of his T-shirt. “What do you say you and me get outta here?”
I pretend to consider it for the briefest second. “I say…hmm. It’s gonna be a hard no, thanks.”
His cheeks grow ruddy with outrage. “The fuck? What do you mean, no?”
I keep my tone casual as I attempt to catch Benny’s attention. “Huh. And here I thought no was pretty universal.” I’m definitely going to need another drink to get through this shit.
When Randy clamps a hand on the back of my barstool, my fingers start twitching. He swivels my stool around abruptly, forcing me to face him. “Listen, here, you scar-faced little bitch—”
I don’t hesitate. I press my thumb and finger together, and everything immediately comes to a complete stop. The jukebox stops playing, and the air-conditioning stops pumping cool air throughout the place.
With the loss of the florescent lights, the bar’s cast in shadows. The sky holds on to the last remnants of the sunset’s glow, the bar’s large casement windows allowing the light to spill through in weak paths.
“Who’re you calling a scar-faced little bitch?” My sneered words echo in the silence. The top of his wallet peeks out from his back pocket, and I snag it with my fingertips to avoid actually touching him. Quickly rifling through it, I discover he has eighty bucks and a brand-new scratch-off lotto ticket.
“Sweet,” I murmur as I pocket the lotto ticket. Thumbing through the cash, I peel off what’s needed to cover my tab and tip for Benny. I toss that on the counter and shove the rest in my back pocket.
Snapping the wallet closed, I slide it back in his pocket. Then I pull my knees up and plant my booted feet against his belly, shoving with all my might. He begins toppling backward, and I start time once again.
Everyone gets to witness Randy windmill his arms, attempting to regain his balance before falling and landing on his ass at my feet. The entire place erupts in laughter and I slide off my stool, staring down at Randy’s sprawled body.
“Begging, at my feet? Why, Randy, you never told me you were such a romantic.”
Laughter grows louder, and he looks pissed, but I don’t give a shit. I step right over the asshole and head to the exit.