Page 3 of Pride

ONE

Anna

I stumbled through the dirt parking lot toward the bar with shoes that had rubbed my sockless feet raw, keys to a car that wouldn’t run, a dead cell phone, and a menstrual cycle that was as unpredictable as the Texas weather.

I hoped one of the patrons would be more courteous than the twenty or so cars that passed by me on the highway without offering so much as a helping hand. The three raggedy pickup trucks and two motorcycles in the parking lot provided little reassurance my hope would be met. At least at 2:30 in the afternoon, I knew I’d be safe going in alone.

I reached for the door, hesitated, and then pushed it open. The putrid stench of piss, vomit, and stale beer hit me like a speeding freight train.

Angry that my car was broke down, angrier that my period started four days early, and aggravated even more that the battery on my cell phone mysteriously went from 72% to completely dead in the twenty-five-mile drive from Uvalde to wherever the fuck I was, I allowed my eyes to adjust from the bright Texas summer sun to the pitch black bar.

Three drunken men and the bartender stared back at me. Another man seated at the bar appeared to be inebriated and stared at his half a glass of beer.

Perfect.

I wiped my sweaty face on my forearm and tossed my head toward the door. “Car broke down a few miles back on 90, and my phone’s dead. Any chance I can use your phone?”

The thirty-something year old douchebag bartender’s white-framed sunglasses were resting on his forehead as if on display. He tilted his head toward a man sitting at the bar. “Pete fixes shit. He’s smarter’n fuck. He might be able to fix it.”

The man raised his head ever-so-slightly and offered a drunken grin. “God damned truth. I fix broke shit.”

“I’ve had problems with it for years. I probably need to have it towed somewhere.” It dawned on me the bill for towing it would probably be more money than the car was worth. “I’ll need a phone book too, my phone’s dead.”

Pete the fix-it man finished what little beer was left in his glass. His comb-over and sun spots made him appear to be sixty years old, although I guessed he wasn’t much older than thirty-five.

“Said that already,” he said dryly.

“Excuse me?”

“Your phone’s dead. You said it twiced.”

Twiced?

And you’re the smart one here?

After walking out of a shitty relationship three years later than I probably should have, I’d driven half the distance between Laughlin Air Force Base in Del Rio, Texas, and San Antonio. In the middle of nowhere with minimal cash, no credit cards, and what I suspected would be an extremely pissed off ex-boyfriend as soon as he found out I was gone, my options were minimal.

I shot the bartender a smile. “The phone, a phone book, and a glass of water would be nice.”

“Phone’s behind the bar.” He grinned mischievously. “You’ll have to come back here to use it.”

The thought of being behind the bar with him wasn’t an appealing one. While I considered leaving and walking to the next bar, I suddenly felt surrounded.

Maybe it was because I was.

I glanced over my shoulder. The three men had gathered behind me, blocking me from leaving. Going over them or through them were my two choices.

“I’ll give ya a ride,” one of them said.

Another chuckled. “Hell, I’d rather ride her.”

I felt sick. I was cramping from my period, my feet were covered in blisters, and I was sunburnt from walking for an hour in the hot Texas sun. The last thing I wanted was to be harassed by three drunken idiots.

“Looks like ya excited her, Luke. Her nipples got hard,” the first one said.

My white shirt was soaked with sweat. Compared to the temperature outside, the air conditioned bar felt like Antarctica. He was right. My nipples were hard. It had nothing to do with the drunken fools ogling me, though. I glanced toward the bartender in hope of a little help.

“He ain’t lyin’, Luke,” the bartender said with a nod. “Her nipples are hard. Look at ‘em.”