That's as far as she got, though, because I've vaulted the bar and was shoving through the crowd. I launched my fist past Rune's ear and smashed it into the douchebag's throat, slipping around in front of her in the process.
The dude gurgled, eyes going wide as his mouth flapped like a fish out of water.
I may have forgotten about his friends, though, because I found myself facing four very large, very beefy, half-drunk douchebags from the popped-collar table.
"Uh, Duncan?" Rune said from behind my back.
"It's all good," I said, knowing the ruckus has alerted Uncle Bax at the front—he never misses a trick.
"The fuck was that, bro?" one of the big, beefy, popped-collar golf bro douchebags said to me, bucking at me.
“He grabbed her ass," I snapped. "That shit doesn't fly in my bar." I pointed at the exit. "You guys can get the fuck out. I don’t care whether you've paid your tab or not, just get the fuck out of my bar, now.”
"Or what, bitch?" he bucked at me again, even though I didn't flinch or take the bait the first time. "What're you gonna do about it?"
"Me?" I said, with an innocent look. “I’m not gonna do anything. I'm just the bartender."
A massive, hard-as-granite paw latched onto the back of the cocky douchebag's neck. "The question is what am I gonna do about it," Bax said, in his deepest, roughest, most intimidating snarl. "And the answer is either you sad sacks of steamy shit get the fuck out of my bar right the fuck now," he squeezed hard enough that the douchebag's eyes went wide with pain. "Or I'll snap your scrawny little neck and throw you into the fucking Passage."
The other dudes paled when they took in the size of my Uncle Baxter. Who, not incidentally, is six feet and two-fifty of solid, brutal muscle. He also happens to be a world-class MMA coach and instructor, and a former underground bare-knuckle brawler. He's massive, terrifying, tattooed, and radiates don’t-fuck-with-me energy.
Bax turned the douchebag around to face the exit, pressed a thumb into a trigger point in his side, and force-marched him out. A single threatening glance was all it took for the fucker's friends to make themselves scarce in a hurry.
"Who was that monster?” Rune whispered, still behind me.
"That's my Uncle Baxter," I answered. "He moonlights as a bouncer here on the weekends."
"Moonlight my ass," Bax growled, returning. "Who'd that taint-stain grab?"
I indicated Rune with a nod behind me. "Her."
Baxter faced her. "I'm sorry about that, miss. We don't tolerate that shit around here." He scanned the bar, which has gone silent, looking from face to face; you could hear a pin drop. "I can and will break faces, folks, so keep your hands to yourself, or make really motherfucking sure the person you're touching has consented." He glanced at me. "Her drinks are on the house, Dunc." It wasn’t a question.
"I thought you were the manager?" Rune asked, watching Bax's broad, departing back.
"I am. But…" I gestured at him. "Like I'm gonna argue? And also, that's our policy in these situations anyway.”
"I could've handled that myself, you know,” she said, heading back to her seat.
"I'm sure you could have,” I answered, climbing back over to the service side. "But you shouldn't have to. It's our job to provide a safe and welcoming experience. In our bars, no one, no matter what, will ever feel afraid. You should be able to leave your drink on the bar and go to the bathroom without worrying it’ll be drugged. And you sure as fuck should be able to walk through the crowd without getting groped. And if you do experience something like that, we're gonna handle it with extreme prejudice. You gotta set examples of what's gonna happen when you cross the line in a Badd bar. Namely, you're gonna get hurt. That fucker is lucky he's not visiting the ER to have bones set."
She nodded. "Well, thank you. Unnecessary, as far as I'm concerned, though appreciated."
It took me a good ten minutes to get through the backlog of service tickets, at which point Rune was counting cash while standing behind her stool.
"Leaving me already?" I asked, clapping a hand over my heart. "Say it ain't so."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be a diva."
"Rune, wait."
She tosses a small stack of bills on the table and waves without looking back as she heads for the exit. “Goodbye, Duncan Badd."
"Fuck," I muttered, hustling after her. I clapped Elias on the back, stuffing the cash into the tip jar on the way past. "I'm taking five. You good?"
Elias—short, burly, bald, and gay—was closer to my parents in age than to me and had decades of experience behind the bar, so the question was rhetorical.
He nodded as he poured a row of Jägermeister shots. "I'm good. Go get 'er, kid."
