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Back out in the main floor of the bar, I see an older guy glaring at us. Dead ringer for whoever was banging on the door. I head his way, pulling Daphne close behind.
As I approach, he leans on locked arms behind the bar. “You clean that shit up?”
“Yeah,” I bark back. “Now, you tell me something. You record what happened in there?”
“Yeah.” He gives me a hard stare. “My place. My security. My cameras. My evidence.”
This motherfucker has no idea who he’s dealing with. But he’s about to find out.
I turn to Daphne. “Go wait at the table, baby. I’ll be right there…” I give her a kiss on the top of her head as she starts to protest, then I see James coming up from behind, looking tense.
“Where you two been? There was some sort of a fight, some massive biker dude with a beer belly the size of Arizona spilled his drink down this girl’s dress. I couldn’t see properly but I was worried you two were caught up in it all. I’ve been looking all over…”
“Nowhere,” Daphne interjects, turning away to hide her soaked dress. Her cheeks flush as she looks to me for support, and I get it. Talking to her brother about losing her cherry in the back room of a bar is not on her list of sibling bonding moments.
I point toward the table where our coats still hang on the backs of our chairs. “Just go sit, both of you. I gotta take care of something.”
“Nothing to take care of,” says the owner, watching the two of them head for our table. “Time for you to go.”
“Not yet,” I reply, and make a beeline for the door back down the hallway that says STAFF ONLY.
“Hey! You can’t go back there!”
I hear him, but I don’t give a fuck. He saw what was happening, and I know how guys work. There’s probably a huddle around the footage right now, and the idea of a bunch of horny assholes getting off watching the moment I took Daphne as mine has me ready to hand out concussions and remove eyeballs.
In ten steps, I’m in front of the door and I hear the hoots and laughter.
I jiggle the knob, but it’s locked. This fucking place and its locked fucking doors. But it doesn’t matter. I tighten my fists, take a step back, and then burst through the lock with my foot flat on the door.
I was right about the fucking huddle. In front of me, three guys and two girls, most of them wearing Van Dyke Racers t-shirts, spin around, eyes wide.
“Dutch?” One of the bigger guys says my name, recognition in his eyes. “Guess you’re out.”
Behind him on the screen is the video of the two of us. That sacred fucking moment, right out there in the open like some bullshit free fucking porn.
And it makes me lose my goddamned mind. I start to growl as I look at him. Like a fucking rabid Doberman. I know him, for sure. Fucking Tito, one of the guys from my old group of what I thought were friends. But he’s not in a work shirt.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl.
Before he can answer, the owner catches up and barges in beside me.
“Get the fuck out!” he yells. “Get the fuck out of my bar, asshole.”
“Fuck this.” I storm forward, the low-pixel footage is poor quality but it’s clear enough. There’s Daphne, with me behind her pounding away. I spin around, grabbing the first guy I see and throwing him toward the door, then pointing at the owner. I’ve got him by the throat and all I’ve got to do is squeeze. “You give me this tape right fucking now or I’m wrecking this room, then burning this place to the ground.”
“Fuck off, man. You’re the one tapping some piece of ass in the closet at my fucking bar! You get the fuck out before I call the cops.”
Tapping some piece of ass? How about I fucking rip your balls off?
I seethe, watching the two girls head for the door, but Tito flashes me a grin. “Dutch is just out of the joint. Right, Dutch? You’re not going to want to see no cops.” He laughs and I growl, stepping his way and watching him shrink back.
He always was a fucking coward.
“You call her a piece of ass again…” I say to the owner.
And I let my words hang there, heavy. I cock my head, clench my fists. I’m ready to fucking roll with this guy. I learned it in prison. The look.
He must see it in in my eyes because he looks down, checking his feet for where his balls must have gone.
At least, that’s what I think.
But I’ve overestimated him. A fat hand forms into a pudgy fist and he lets fly, sloppy but still strong. I see the punch coming before he even throws it, my hand already in position to block. That’s another thing from prison—keep your eyes open. Be ready. No matter what.
