Despite the rowdy UFC crowd, it felt like Brandon and I were the only two here. Sitting in this bar talking to him about grief made me want to tell him about my own. He’d been through more than anyone should, and I imagined he’d have advice on how to handle things better than I had been.
Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was that I felt comfortable around Brandon and I knew he’d be supportive, but I felt like I could tell him what had happened to me. If anyone would understand what I’d been through, it was him. There was no dread, no panic-attack symptoms. Just an overwhelming need to get this story off my chest.
I was finally ready.
I took a deep breath. “Brandon, there’s something I’ve been meaning to—”
Someone crashed into me from behind. The knock was hard enough that I spilled my beer and almost slipped off the barstool.
I spun fast. “Hey, watch it!”
The culprit, a burly UFC wannabe with a backwards-facing ball cap, didn’t even turn around.Jackass. He carried on cheering with his buddies while using exaggerated hand gestures. Judging by the stack of empty bottles on their table, I figured they were three sheets to the wind.
Brandon handed me a napkin to dry my hands and used another to wipe the mess from our table.
He scowled at the back of the jackass’s ball cap, and when he went to stand, I grabbed his arm. “Don’t, Brandon. We shouldn’t draw any unwanted attention.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “Maybe we should go. I didn’t expect this place to be so packed.”
“No way. We just got here. And you were right about needing to get out of the hotel. This was a good idea.”
He glanced between me and the group of guys. “All right. Swap seats with me, at least.”
I nodded, and we made the exchange. When a raucous laugh went up behind him, Brandon glared over his shoulder at the bunch of guys.
“Hey.” I caught his attention by kicking his boot under the table. “Why don’t you go get us a couple more beers?”
He frowned, casting another look over his shoulder. “Okay. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I watched Brandon weave his way to the bar through the crowd, admiring the way the black T-shirt stretched tight across his broad back and how he stood a head taller than most of the patrons. I guessed the title fight must’ve been about to start, because the place was pumping.
“Hey, sweetheart. This seat taken?”
Oh, hell no.
It was the chump who’d crashed into me. Not sure why he bothered asking since he’d already slumped his drunken ass onto Brandon’s barstool.
“You know it’s taken, so why don’t you head on back to your buddies before the rightful owner returns?” I turned from him to stare at the screen.
He leaned forward, the smell of bourbon strong on his breath. “Come hang out with us. We’re a lot of fun.”
“I highly doubt that.”
He swayed a little in his seat. “You know, you’d be much prettier if you smiled more.”
Wow. Just when I thought Jackass couldn’t get less appealing. “And you’d be much prettier with a broken nose. Now. Fuck. Off.”
“You’re a ballsy one.” He laughed and grabbed my thigh under the table. “I like that.”
Fiery rage tore through me. I was done dealing with his shit.
I slammed my knee against the underside of the table, crushing his hand in between. Luckily, the table was bolted down, or it would’ve flipped over. Jackass grimaced and ripped his hand back fast, shaking away the pain.
“Touch me like that again, and I’ll break your goddamn arm,” I growled, and if my venomous stare didn’t tell him I was serious, I’d happily follow through on the threat.
“Get out of my seat. Now.” Brandon placed two beers on the table before standing next to me.
Oh, shit. He looked like he wanted to tear the backwards-facing ball cap off the guy’s head and shove it down his throat.