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“We’ll be late,” I observe, making a mental note of the brand of bath and Jacuzzi, deciding it’s a must have for our future home.
“Fashionably late,” Charlene says and I feel a flush of pride for her again. All her self-consciousness, and self-doubt seems to be shrinking away.
She’s not a girl anymore, she’s a woman.
My woman and I’m proud of her for stepping into her own so quickly.
We’re late, and although the Captain is a gracious host, there’s a few scowls from the other guests as we are seated at the formally set, huge dining table, closest to the Captain himself.
Like baths and tuxedos, formal dining and social one-upmanship has never been my thing, and I can see pretty quickly that Charlene feels out of her depth too.
Fortunately, there’s plenty of loud, open mouths and enough booze to keep most of the table entertained amongst themselves.
The Captain’s a teetotaler, and we both earn brownie points quickly once he realizes we’re not drinkers.
Excusing himself early, the Captain leans in close, “I can see you have things well in hand, looking after Mr. Canning’s daughter. I have an early start, so will bid you goodnight,” he says, and without much ceremony, he leaves us at a crowded table full of people who mostly frown at us, wanting to talk about things none of us have in common.
“All that effort for an early night,” I murmur to Charlene, who looks down at her lap, suddenly looking uncomfortable.
Following where her eyes have just been, I spot a guy opposite, flushed red with drink and recognize the leering look in his red, glazed eyes as they fixate on Charlene.
My Charlene.
Mine.
I hear the low growl before I feel it, before I feel Charlene’s hand in mine under the table as she squeezes it gently begging me to let it go.
But I can’t.
The sleaze is in uniform, a member of the crew and I can only assume he has the night off because he’s drunk. The kind of drunk that loses interest in Charlene once he notices my eyes on his, hears my low growl warning him off, telling him to stay away from what’s mine.
“You got a problem with your throat?” he drawls, a thick Southern accent that if he could, if he would write its essence down, would only spell one word. Asshole.
“No,” I snarl, “You got a problem with your eyes?”
The others at the table initially try and dissuade the crewman from starting anything, but he’s already started it as far as I’m concerned, leaving only me to finish it.
Having checked the Captain is gone for the night, and most other passengers looking just as bombed under the guise of ‘liveliness’, there’s soon an idea presented across the table that I should arm wrestle this young man, who fancies himself a bit of a strongman instead of trying to pick a fight.
“Come on old man. Afraid I’ll beat your ass,” he quips, rolling up his sleeve after taking his jacket off, “I might even have a little dance with your granddaughter afterwards, old man.”
Another crew member cautions us both to keep things friendly, to which I offer him my best snarl, inviting him to join in the fun with his loud-mouthed friend.
“Just an arm wrestle,” I assure him after he threatens to call security and I feel Charlene’s hands on my arm, pulling me down to her. Not to tell me to stop, but to tell me something else.
“Just tell me you’d do this even if I wasn’t here,” she says, sounding frightened but thrilled at the same time.
“Oh, I’d be doing more than arm wrestling this guy if nobody else was around,” I assure her.
“Outside,” the crewman slurs, and within a minute we’re at a table outside, a small crowd gathered and the other crewman acting as some sort of referee.
Charlene doesn’t try and stop me, but only follows me, slipping her hand into mine just before I take my jacket off and loosening my shirt collar. I can hear some gasps from the crowd, which has started to grow.
“Holy shit…” somebody murmurs, and I look over to my drunk challenger, who suddenly looks a little green, even in the soft light.
I let him think he has a chance, even letting my arm sway a little this way, then a little that way, but once I see that prick’s eyes move over to Charlene again, watching him lick his thick lips, I end it.
I end him. His chicken wing arm anyway.
The crowd gasps, but in horror as the younger man’s girlish scream echoes above the sound of the night.
I’ve never arm wrestled before, but apparently I’m a natural. I’ve never broken a man’s hand before, nor his wrist and forearm, but there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.
He’s carried off by his comrades to the medics and the remaining crowd is scornful of my act, one woman even branding me a coward, while most just tsk to themselves.
