I’ve been told drunks come by late at night sometimes as they’re walking towards home. They seem to think it’s a good idea to get one more drink in them before they pass out somewhere, sometimes even in the alley out back. In the three whole weeks I’ve been here, I’ve been lucky enough not to cross paths with one of them. Apparently, my luck has run out tonight.
“Sorry, sir. About to close.”
“Fuck that! You just told that guy over there he can have another drink. If he can get a drink, means you’re not closed, and I can get another drink. So why don’t you be a good girl, sweetheart, and get me a bourbon?”
I don’t enjoy being around drunk people. Maybe it’s because my dad was a raging alcoholic, doing and allowing unspeakable things to happen to me—something my psyche has tried to deny my entire life. It could also be due to the wicked scar I have on the side of my neck from when my ex broke a beer bottle and slashed my throat. Whatever the reason, I don’t like drunks.
I also don’t like aggressive motherfuckers who think they can bully me around. I’ve been there, done that, and bought the T-shirt. There is no way I am ever visiting again.
I glide my fingers underneath the bar and grasp the handle of the baseball bat. Some of the female service staff keep it there just in case guys get a little too touchy-feely. I’ve never had to use it because I’m not the type most guys lust after, but tonight I’m glad it’s there.
“Listen, sir, you need to go. My boyfriend’s gonna show up here, and he’s not the kind of guy you want to mess with.”
The pungent odor of stale beer and urine assault my sense of smell in waves as the guy steps closer. “I doubt you’re a girl with a boyfriend. Why don’t you shut up and go get me my drink?”
“Get the fuck out of here before I kill you.”
Both the drunk and I turn towards the guy sitting at the bar. He no longer looks harmless. Now his eyes are blazing with rage, and his massive arm muscles bulge as he clenches and unclenches his fists.
The guy looks like a natural-born killer.
When the drunk doesn’t move, my stalker goes behind the bar. “I warned you, motherfucker.”
Chapter Three
STONE
When you’ve killed once, you’ve got no problems doing it again. I walk over to the fucker with the hammer in my hand. He doesn’t look fazed. He probably thinks I’m just another drunk moron he can take on. The dude has about one hundred pounds on me, but it’s a hundred pounds of fat. I’m quicker, stronger, and since he is so fuckin’ drunk, I’m a helluva lot smarter.
He stood there telling my Em that she’s not attractive enough when she is the most beautiful thing to have ever graced this goddamn earth. Fuckin’ Jabba the Hut trying to tell Beauty she isn’t beautiful… What a joke.
He screams, and his head flops to the side as I slam it with the hammer. It fuckin’ hurts getting hit by a hammer. It’s a fucking heavy tool, and as much as people want to think the skull protects their brains, it’s no match for solid metal. I probably crushed his bones to dust with that blow.
A small chunk of flesh flies out of him, barely missing Em’s face.
“I warned you, motherfucker. Your ass decided not to heed the warning of a psychopath.”
The fucker goes to stand up, and I thrust the hammer under his chin. Crack! “Fuck, you just made me fracture your entire jaw. I’m not sure they’ll even be able to put that stuff together again.” I shrug. “Not that it matters. I don’t plan on leaving much of you to put back together.”
The drunk staggers, his body now moving like a tube man at a car dealership. The guy is all flapping arms and jelly legs.
“Hurts, doesn’t it? Do you have any idea how many bones I just crushed with that blow? If only you’d gone home when the lady asked.”
He tries to speak. “I-I’m-s-o-r-r-y. I c-a-n lea-ve.” He tries to say more, but he can’t. I made it impossible for him with that last blow.
“What’s that, asshole? Do you wanna beg the lady for forgiveness?” I glance up at Emily, and she’s frozen. It’s that same fucking look she gave me ten years ago. But it’s too late to stop. I pull back the hammer and punch it into his ribs with all my force. A loud crack blasts into the bar as the metal shifts into his flesh.
This is where a normal person would stop—okay, not a normal person, but a normal psycho. And I could’ve been normal if I’d always had Em. But ten years living without my lifeline has made me, let’s say, a little unhinged. Without Emily, there was no one to rein in the bloodlust that was always simmering under the surface.