Grace for Drowning

"I can't serve you if you're already drunk, sir."

"Drunk? I've barely had nothing."

"Well I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

His face twisted into a scowl and he leaned down on the bar so he was looming over me. Not that that was particularly difficult to do. You know that saying "she weighed a hundred and twenty pounds dripping wet?" Well that's me to a T. I can hit five foot three if you get me the right heels, but I was wearing flats tonight, and so even though this guy wasn't particularly large, he towered over me.

"Now listen here," he slurred, dousing me in rank alcohol breath. "You don't get to tell me when I can and can't drink. This is America! I do what I damn well want, and what I want is to have another bourbon." I began to move to the other end of the bar, hoping that would end it, but he reached out and caught my wrist. "Now where are you going? I'm talking to you. Look, all..." He trailed off as a huge hand fell on his shoulder.

"You're done talking," Logan said, his shadow engulfing both of us as he appeared at the bar. It was the first real look I'd had at him, and I found my breath catching in my throat. He had a solid three quarters of a foot on the guy in front of me, which made him truly gigantic, and the way his body swelled beneath his black tee said he had to weigh over two hundred pounds. A perfectly proportioned slab of a man. His skin was scarred in several places — angry, brutal markings that seemed like they could only come accompanied by horrible stories. But what really caught my eye was his tattoos. Snaking out from both of his sleeves were two intricate explosions of colored ink that hugged his arms like another piece of clothing. It all added up to one incredibly intimidating package.

Apparently, the drunk guy felt similarly. He released his grip instantly. His throat pumped, his eyes widening as they gradually traveled up and up. For a moment I thought that was the end of it — it would have been like a Chihuahua standing its ground against a Great Dane — but they don't call it Dutch courage for nothing, I guess.

He paused, then steeled himself. "Hey, we're all cool, buddy," he said, flashing a cautious smile. "I just want another drink, that's all."

Logan didn't even blink. "There won't be any more drinks. I'm going to give you a choice, which, after laying hands on a lady, is more than you deserve. Either you choose to leave on your own, or you choose to make me remove you. Think carefully." His voice was low and utterly calm, although that only made him sound more dangerous.

The guy got the message. A tremble rolled through his body that I suspected had little to do with the booze, and he nodded quickly. Shooting me one last dirty look, like I was somehow responsible for the sudden inadequacy of his pectoral muscles, he made his wobbly way toward the door.

"Thanks," I said, although a part of me was annoyed that he hadn't given me a chance to handle it myself. I wasn't going to be much of a bartender if I couldn't deal with a little lip from someone who'd had too much. I might have spoken up, but the truth was I felt a little wary myself. I wasn't afraid to admit this giant man frightened me.

He shrugged. "Just doing my job." He looked fairly young, maybe mid twenties, although there was nothing boyish about his face. It was all hard planes and strong angles, masculine in every sense of the word. With sun-darkened skin, close cropped raven black hair and a dusting of stubble, everything about him felt rough, raw, like he'd just wandered in from a lifetime living in the jungle. As my eyes roved over his features, I was struck by a strange sense of familiarity. Had we met before? It seemed impossible I'd forget such a striking man, but nothing came to mind.

It seemed like that should have been the end of the exchange, but he didn't leave. He just stood there, pinning me in place with those captivating eyes. Up close they were startlingly blue, like a postcard ocean, and the longer I looked, the deeper I sank. That gaze seemed much older than the rest of him, like it was from another time, another place, and it had seen things you couldn't even imagine.

A strange sensation rolled down my spine and I looked away. "Well, I appreciate it."

He reached out and took my hand, moving my wrist into the light, and I felt a jolt of energy at his touch. It was a gentle gesture for such a powerful man. His fingers completely swallowed mine, and I couldn't help but glance at them. They were gnarled, brawlers fingers; a chaotic cartography of muscle, bone and scar tissue. His physique wasn't just an idle boast. This was a man more than capable of delivering on that promise.

"Did he hurt you?" he said.

"It's fine," I replied, my voice strangely thin. I pulled away, uncomfortable with the way that contact made me feel.

"I'm Logan."

"Grace."

He nodded, as though he wasn't surprised. "Enjoying your first night?"

"Aside from getting manhandled, it's been fine. A lot to learn."

"I'm sure you'll get the hang of it soon enough."

I nodded.

"Well, if anything like that happens again, all you have to do is raise your hand. This place being what it is," he nodded toward the back door that led to the arena, "the crowd here can be a little rough, but don't worry, I've got your back." He flashed a quick smile, exposing a single dimple in his right cheek. It was the first change in expression I'd seen from him, and it managed to completely cut through the hardness of his features.

"Good to know," I replied. Again, I was overcome with the sense that I knew him. I could picture that smile in my mind, only it was somewhere else. I just couldn't remember where. "This might be a weird question, but have we met before?"

He hesitated. "A few months back you came here. We talked briefly outside. You'd had a...big night."

A sudden bolt of clarity, and I remembered. It had been just a few days after I found Tom; the first time I'd decided to get truly shitfaced just to see if it would ease the agony even a little. I hadn't been to Charlie's before. I wasn't even sure how I got there or what happened when I did. But I remembered sitting on the curb with my stomach and head churning as one and having Logan loom up behind me. I remembered a brief moment of fear, followed by resignation and even a hint of relief. This t

hug was going to do something horrible to me, but maybe he'd put me out of my misery. Only he hadn't. He'd just wanted to talk.

"You wanted to take my drink away." I tried to make it sound like a joke, but my voice cracked a little as I said it. Suddenly I was right back there, feeling everything open up inside me all over again like a fresh wound. Heat pooled in my eyes, and I blinked furiously. Even now, it didn't take much to set me off. Pull your damn self together.

There was sympathy in his smile this time. Or was that understanding? Whatever it was, I appreciated it. Even more, I appreciated that he didn't comment about the way I'd reacted. "Only after you poured half of it down my shirt."