Page 1 of Protect Me Daddy

Chapter 1

Ever get the feelingthat you’re stuck on loop?

Like every day is the same? Like every shift in the crappy bar you work at is the same? Like every customer is basically the same leery, overly-handsy, lecherous asshole?

I’ve been getting that feeling a lot recently.

I slid the damp rag across the bar's sticky surface, wincing as my aching shoulders protested. The neon Budweiser sign flickered, casting a lurid glow that barely penetrated the haze of cigarette smoke. Through gaps in the gaudy beer logos, I glimpsed the gritty street outside painted in harsh orange. Another double shift done, but the day was far from over.

"Christ, my dogs are barking," I muttered, flexing my sore feet in their scuffed work shoes.

The clink of glasses rang out as I restocked the shelves, my mind automatically tallying up the meager tips stuffed in my apron pocket. Not enough. Never enough. Just like always.

"Looks like Ramen for dinner. Again." I sighed, remembering a time when my biggest worry was passing Anatomy & Physiology.

The memory hit me like a punch to the gut - packing up my dorm room, the dream of becoming a nurse crumbling as surely as the mounting pile of unpaid tuition bills. I'd wanted so badly to help people, to make a difference. Now look at me.

"Hey Tilly, can I get another beer?" A gruff voice snapped me back to reality.

I pasted on a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Coming right up, Frank."

I must have served Frank a thousand drinks. He was in here most nights, propping up the bar, almost never talking to anyone, eyes sad and clothes disheveled. Still, on balance, he was one of my favorite customers. He never did anything inappropriate, and—as far as I knew—he wasn’t affiliated with any of the criminal organizations who seemed to call this bar home.

"Here you go," I said, sliding the foaming mug across the bar. "That'll be five bucks."

Frank tossed a crumpled bill on the counter. I smoothed it out, noting the single before tucking it away. One step closer to rent, but still so far to go.

The heavy thud of the front door opening made me tense instinctively. Time for the night crowd, and all the trouble they brought with them. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever came next.

I slipped into my practiced neutral expression as the evening regulars stumbled in. Dock workers with calloused hands, petty thieves with shifty eyes, lost souls seeking solace at the bottom of a glass—I'd seen it all before. My face said "I'm here but not really here" as I mechanically poured drinks and made small talk.

"How's it hangin', doll?" rasped Jimmy, a weathered fisherman who smelled perpetually of brine.

"Same old, same old," I replied with a shrug, sliding his usual whiskey across the bar.

My skin prickled as the door banged open again. A raucous laugh cut through the low din, and my stomach dropped. Earl Grimes. Just what I needed tonight.

"Well, well, if it ain't my favorite little barmaid," Earl's gravelly voice carried across the room. His bloodshot eyes locked onto me, a predatory gleam I knew all too well.

I busied myself wiping down glasses, hoping he'd find some other target for his drunken attention. No such luck. Earl's meaty hands slapped the bar in front of me.

"Two shots of your cheapest rotgut, sweetheart. And maybe a little sugar for ol' Earl, eh?" He leered, alcohol fumes wafting over me.

"Coming right up," I muttered, reaching for the well whiskey. My hands trembled slightly as I poured, hyper-aware of Earl's eyes roving over me.

God, I hated this part of the job. But what choice did I have? It was this or be out on the street. I squared my shoulders, reminding myself I was tougher than I looked. I'd survived worse than Earl Grimes.

Hadn't I?

As the night wore on, Earl's voice grew louder, his comments cruder. I tried to stay busy at the far end of the bar, but his words still reached me, each one like a greasy finger trailing down my spine.

"Look at that ass," he slurred to his equally inebriated buddies. "Bet she's a wild one in the sack."

I gritted my teeth, scrubbing furiously at an already clean glass. My cheeks burned with a mix of anger and humiliation. Part of me wanted to march over and dump a pitcher of beer on his head. But I knew better. Guys like Earl, they feed on reaction.

The clink of glasses and murmur of conversations became distant echoes as Earl's voice cut through the haze once more. "What's the matter, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?" His jeering laughter rang in my ears, a mocking symphony that grated on my nerves. I kept my eyes down.

Just then, the door opened, and a hush fell over the bar. A man I'd never seen before walked in, his presence commanding attention without a word. He moved with quiet confidence, settling into a corner seat.

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