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“You think I did do something, don’t you? You arsehole.”
I climbed up onto a bar stool and got a knee on the bar and launched myself at Ryan. I half-fell, half-flew at him, grabbing his tee-shirt and clocking my knee on the edge of the bar. We both fell to the sticky rubber floor behind the bar. My only plan was to give him a bloody nose so he would tell me where Stacey was.
The party crowd cheered on the fight. Neither of us could land a punch so we wrestled instead, both of us trying to knee each other in the balls.
“Tell me where she is!”
Ryan avoided another punch and managed to elbow my stomach.
“Fuck you,” he muttered.
I landed a fist into his ribs, earning myself a groan from Ryan.
“Break it up, you idiots!” someone yelled above me.
Ryan glanced up and I used the opportunity to aim for his eye but instead hit his cheekbone andholy motherfucker of all sheep shaggers, pain shot out through my hand.
My knuckle had split open, blood pouring everywhere. Ryan pushed me back against the bar fridge door, winding me.
“Crying out loud,” was the last thing I heard before we were sprayed with soda water.
The pub owner, John, glowered over us, holding the soft drink dispenser ‘gun’ just like a gun slinger from an old western film, daring us to make his day. I scooted back along the fridges, getting out of range. Ryan was quick to join me.
“Get outa here now!” John pointed at Ryan. “You know where. The Sin Bin. Take him with you. And when you’ve both calmed down, you can clean the bar after close.”
The crowd laughed and dissipated.
“Go on! Get!” He shooed us with a wave of his hand and turned back to the bar to politely ask a young woman what drink she’d like, as if two grown men hadn’t just been mashing each other’s faces with their fists. We left dragging our feet and dripping wet to sit outside in the frigid cold night.
* * *
“The Sin Bin is an actual bin?” I asked, huddled beside Ryan near the pub’s Dumpster bin.
“It earned the nickname because we park the rowdy drunks out here to cool down,” Ryan muttered. “But I’m not going to freeze out here.” He rolled a gas heater to our bench and clicked it on while his sister’s party still kicked on in the background.
“Stop touching me,” Ryan grumbled.
“It’s bloody cold and we’re both soaked.” I scooted closer to him on the bench, just to play mind games. “Don’t want to catch hypothermia.”
Mind games aside, Ryan was surprisingly warm and I was cold.
“That’s bullshit,” he grumbled, not sounding confident.
“Hypothermia could happen in a beer garden. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”
Ryan snorted but stayed close under the gas heater.
I thought I’d been clever grabbing a bar towel on my way out to dry myself off. But the towel was wetter than I was. Pub owner John was smart. The cold had sapped the fight out of the both of us.
“Where is she?” I asked. “Please. Just tell me.”
His shoulders slumped. “You really like her, don’t you?”
I looked him in the eye. “I do.”
Ryan finally relented with a sigh. “She’s in the pub office, calming down. John’s keeping an eye on her. Letting the panic attack subside. Sam’s coming to get her, if she hasn’t already, to stay with her tonight.”
“Panic attack?” My voice sounded like a strangled whisper.
