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We’re really getting going when the banging stops suddenly. It feels like all of the oxygen is sucked out of the room, and all I can think to do is keep singing.
The song ends, and the room grows silent. Everyone parts like a wave as boots stomp toward me. If they’d just choose another song, everything will be okay. I take a step off the table toward the jukebox.
Suddenly, I’m upside down, staring at the firmest ass I’ve ever seen. Well, if this is how I die, so be it. At least I get to see something nice before I go.
* * *
OWEN
It’s a typical weekend night. I’ve pulled a couple of teenagers off the water tower. I’m not sure why they can’t put a lock on the gate to keep people out.
I responded to a false burglar alarm at the hardware store. There was a moment when I thought something exciting was going to happen, but it turns out the owners forgot to take the cat home with them this time. They apologized profusely for the mistake.
I chased down a couple of kids on dirt bikes riding along the river to tell them they needed to find helmets. They agreed, then I’m sure went right back to jumping mounds of dirt without them. At least I tried.
Then I got the call. Not from dispatch this time. It came from the bartender at Garza’s. It was the end of my shift, so I drove there immediately. I’m not prepared for what I find.
Standing on one of the tables in the center of the room, belting out a song that sounds like two cats fighting in an alley, is Eliot. That part I can handle. The fact she’s in a short skirt and some guy has his hand on her thigh has me seeing red. Kevin rushes over to me. It’s obvious he’s lost control of the bar.
“Thank Christ, you’re here,” he yells over the noise. “I’ve tried several times to get her down, but she refuses. And she’s scary.” I glare at him. He heads back behind the bar.
I guess I’m expected to deal with this now that I’m here. The room goes quiet when I head for her table. She’s still singing if that’s what you can call it, but everyone else starts shuffling away. The hand disappears from her thigh.
The music stops, and Eliot looks around like she’s waiting for the next one to start. She sways slightly as she stands in her cowboy boots on the table. Suddenly she steps toward the jukebox. She doesn’t even try for the chair that’s near her. Years of track payoff as I quickly move to catch her. I wrap my arms around her legs and lay her over my shoulder.
“What in the hell was going on here?” I ask the mostly male crowd. They find anywhere to look but at me. I finally give up and head for the door. With any luck, I can get her home before she starts throwing up.
But where do I take her? I doubt her family knows anything about this since they haven’t been in on any of her other stunts. Shit, where are her keys?
“Owen,” Kevin calls. He’s waving her purse over his head from the door. “Thought you might need this.” He hands it to me.
I’ll be back around to deal with him later. Right now, I’m more concerned about Eliot moaning while draped over my shoulder. I motion for Kevin to open my passenger door. When I’m done easing her inside and hooking her seatbelt, he’s nowhere in sight. I have no doubt if he leaves the rest of the crowd alone for too long, he’ll never regain control.
I grab her purse from where Kevin left it on the hood and climb into the driver’s seat. Eliot’s head is propped against the headrest. She doesn’t look good.
“Eliot,” I say with a small shake. “Do I need to drive you to the hospital? How much did you drink?”
“Stop being a dick, Kevin,” she moans. So still mostly coherent. Making what will probably be a bad decision, I drive to my apartment. Eliot is passed out or asleep by the time I get there. I’m hoping asleep. She moans when I pry her from the cruiser, but she’s aware enough to sing a few more lines of something I can’t identify.
“Come on, sunshine. Let’s get you near a trash can.” We make it up the stairs to my door when she barfs all over both of us. It’s going to be a long night, but I guess I can spend it trying to get vomit out of my gun belt.
“I don’t feel good,” Eliot moans.
I manage to steer her inside.
“No shit. Here.” I grab a trash can right before more alcohol leaves her system the hard way. I manage to keep her hair out of it at least.
She finally finishes, and I ease her to the bathroom. Carefully slipping her blouse off, I slide one of my T-shirts on. I’m impressed I managed to do it without gagging. She shoves her skirt down while I’m trying to pull the boots off. It would be sexy if she didn’t smell like a garbage can behind a bar.
I steer her toward the bed where she collapses in dramatic fashion. “I’m putting a trash can next to the bed. I don’t envy you the headache you’re going to have. I hope it was worth it.” With the trash can next to her, the covers pulled to her chin, and some impressive snoring starting, I creep out of the room.
You’re probably thinking my bringing Eliot here instead of her house is a creeper move. It’s just a matter of semantics. I don’t want her to be alone until I’m positive she’s okay.
So I had three choices. I could take her to one of her family members, but it’s late, and there’s no reason to upset them. I could have taken her to her home, but I had no way to secure my gun or any clothes to change into. So, the logical thing was to bring her here. Where she’s snoring in my bed. Wearing my clothes. Okay, I can see the issue now.
If I promise I’ll sleep on the couch, does it sound better? Anyway, I grab some sweats and a T-shirt and head for the shower. Most of the vomit missed my gun, so it’s safely locked in the safe. I’ll clean the rest when I get out. I can also throw our vomit-covered clothes in the washing machine. See, nothing pervy is happening here.
So why does the very thought of her curled up in my bed make me hard enough to drive nails? Nothing a shower can’t fix.
