“Working,” I say with every ounce of dismissive energy I can muster.
“Who works at a bar?” Ivy leans in to peek at my screen.
“Do you mind?” I ask, tilting my screen away.
He ignores my tone. “What do you do?”
“Work.”
“Oh, come on...” Frustration at my dismissal finally begins to color his tone “You gotta give me more than that.”
“Do I?” I’m still not bothering to give him so much as a sidelong glance.
“It's only polite when someone shows interest.”
Now I turn to him, letting my lips pull back into a smile that's more threat than invitation. “See, I didn't invite your interest. And you're not worth the effort it takes for me to be polite.” Satisfaction warms my blood at the surprise reddening his cheeks. “If you'll excuse me, I'm busy.”
“Excuse you?” Ivy huffs.
“Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe I wasn't clear enough. Fuck. Off.”
With the kind of audacity only afforded to WASP-y white boys, he reaches over and closes my laptop, leaving his hand in place. “Here's a thought. How about you stop being such an ungrateful bitch and?—”
The rest of his words stick in his throat as a long, tattooed fingers wrap around his wrist, flinging his hand into his face. “Hey!” Ivy blusters, thrown slightly off balance by the unexpected action.
“The fuck do you think you're doing, man?”
“I was just trying to be nice to?—”
“In case you're too stupid to take a hint, she's not interested. When that happens, you fuck off. You don't touch shit that doesn't belong to you like a toddler.”
Ivy puffs out his chest and tilts his chin a little too high in what I can only assume is an attempt to look intimidating. All it does, however, is make him look even more like alittle boy throwing a tantrum, especially compared to the man behind the bar. “I was doing her a favor by?—”
“A favor?” Cold laughter bubbles up almost reflexively. Men like Ivy can stand a lot, but being laughed at? That will almost always cause them to snap. And after the day, month, year I've had, I’m perfectly prepared to trade blows with a petulant twenty-something. “Oh, honey, bless your heart.” A touch of my long-faded East Texas accent shows through, not unlike how predators flash a bit of color before attacking. “Tell you what, do us both a favor and scurry on back to your little friends before you make more of a scene.”
“Fuck you!” Ivy blurts. He stumbles over his words, feebly reaching for something to sling back at me. After a few attempts, he arrives exactly where I knew he would. “Wasn't like I was actually interested in some fat bitch?—”
“Get out,” the bartender says without an ounce of emotion.
I'm used to deflecting men like Ivy. Ever since I hit puberty, they've made a habit of hurling their fragile egos at me, assuming, incorrectly, that my fat body will provide a soft landing. When they inevitably find themselves shattered, they always try to salvage the wreckage by attempting to bring me down.
What I am not used to is men intervening on my behalf.
“What?” The word drips with all of Ivy's blue-blooded indignation.
“You heard me.”
If that man looked at me the way he was looking at Ivy, I'd be fleeing. Shocking no one, despite the prestigious university blazoned on his sweatshirt, Ivy is not bright enough to realize he's outclassed.
“Bro, come on! You know I was just?—”
The bartender lays both palms flat on the polished wood, leaning his broad frame over just enough to make Ivy visiblyuncomfortable. “I have no issue physically removing you from my bar. But I promise you it's in your best interest to leave on your own.” Ivy gives the man a wary once-over, as if he thought this was a fight he had any chance of winning. “So I'm gonna say this one more time: you and your little friends need to get the fuck out of my bar.”
No one in the building breathes.
“One,” the bartender growls.
That’s all it takes.
