“Is there a bartender nearby?” His voice holds an edge.
“Not near enough, if you ask me.” I snicker.
“Can you get their attention, please?”
“Sure.” I wave my arms above my head, dropping the phone in the process. “Bartender! Bartender!”
The bartender’s in his midfifties and dressed like an old-timey saloon barback with a vest, armband, and string necktie knotted at his throat. All he’s missing is a greasy curlicue mustache. His expression is aggrieved as he makes his way over.
“Yes?” he asks, eyeing me warily. I hold the phone out to him wordlessly.
“Hello?” he says, leaning a hip against the bar. He listens for a moment before his face shifts into a hard mask. “Look, buddy, I only served her one drink. I can’t help it if she came in here already loaded.”
I snort—who saysloaded? Men who wear saloon costumes, apparently.
He shoots me a dirty look but is quiet as he listens to whatever Ben is waxing on about. He glances at me, his face relaxing a little. Then he says, “Clive’s on K Street. Yep, no problem.”
He hands me back my phone. “You’re cut off, honey.”
What?How dare he! “Ben!” I scream into the phone. “You’re not the boss of me!”
But nothing’s there but dead air. He’s already hung up.
Ten minutes later and I’m learning a lot about my new friend Damian, who works on the Hill as a pharmaceutical lobbyist. He’s also giving me sips of his drink whenever Bartender Buzzkill isn’t looking. That’s my clever new nickname for him, which I find hilarious. He does not. It might be because I keep trying to order a whiskey sling and sarsaparilla, but whatever. You’d think someone dressed for the Wild West would have a better sense of humor.
Damian is really funny. So funny, in fact, that when I laugh and go to punch him playfully on the arm, I lose my balance and slide off my stool. I feel, rather than see, the large hand that grabs me from behind and steadies me, and then a massive form steps between Damian and me. I watch as Damian shrinks back, eyes wide as he takes in the behemoth before him.
A new buzzkill is here. Buzzkill Ben.
“Benjy!” I shout gleefully, throwing my arms around him from behind. I’ve always been an energetic drunk.
He doesn’t turn to look at me or acknowledge my outburst. He towers over Damian, an intimidating brick wall suddenly erected between us.
“Leave. Now.”
His voice is low and menacing and brooks no debate. I wish I could see what his face looks like—though judging by Damian’s expression, it’s very scary indeed. It’s like I’m witnessing a live-actionNational Geographicspecial:Observe the alpha male as he picks off the weakest of the pack.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain it occurs to me that I should be upset that Ben is scaring off a potential suitor, but I’m so riveted by the scene unfolding before me that it barely registers. I watch in fascination as Damian gets up off the stool and mutters an apology—to me or to Ben, I’m not sure whom—then slinks off, disappearing out the door.
I’m so disappointed in Damian. What a wimp. Why are all the guys who like me such wusses?
“Well, well, well. Buzzkill Benjamin Mackenzie is here!” I giggle at my cleverness. “Does everyone always do exactly as you say?”
“Not everyone,” he answers curtly.
He sounds mad. I crane my neck to get a better view of him but he’s looking past me to find the bartender, his eyes unreadable. A muscle pulses in his neck.
“What are you evendoinghere?”
He finally turns and acknowledges me, but when I see the expression on his face, I almost wish he hadn’t. The look he casts me is so full of pity and contempt that I physically recoil. And I thought hisinjured birdlook was bad.
What, am I not allowed to go out drinking? I’m a grown woman. I hardly think that qualifies me for a public shaming by Mr. Rogers over here. I shoot him a glare and stew in righteous indignation.
Meanwhile, Ben’s finally gotten the bartender’s attention and motioned him over. He approaches Ben slowly, trepidation written all over his face. Jesus, iseverymale scared of Ben? How disappointing.
“Is she paid out?” Ben asks. He is all brisk efficiency.
Bartender Buzzkill nods and hands him my credit card and receipt, flicking his eyes toward me apologetically. What is the collective noun for a group of buzzkills? A brood of buzzkills? A band of buzzkills? I snort at my own hilarity.
