Page 3 of Until Landon
“Frank! Watch the bar,” I say.
Taking a cold pack from the cooler, I round the corner and make for the injured party.
“Get the fuck back. Give him space!” Dad orders.
He places the towels against the wound.
I get there just as Maxen speaks up.
“I’m okay! Everyone is overreacting!”
“You are not okay,” Dominique says without room for argument. “You’re drunk and hit your head on the table going down!”
“Here. Wrap a towel around this,” I say, holding out the pack.
Dad holds up both hands and gets everyone’s attention.
“That’s it, people. We close in ten minutes. All of you, say goodnight now and get your asses home. Call your rides.”
No one argues with Ronnie. They gather jackets and purses, kiss each other’s cheeks and begin a slow, noisy exit. The bride is working her cell while two guys help Maxen up. Dad signals to Frank to turn off the music which settles any argument about the party being over.
There is a sudden awareness the woman hasn’t come out of the bathroom, and when I look, the man who had eyes on her is not in his seat. Fuck.
“Wes,” I call, passing where he stands. My chin lift in the direction of the back of the house is understood. He follows without questioning why. The hall leading to the bathrooms is dark. Unusually so.He twisted the bulb off.
As we turn the corner, the door of the ladies’ room is slowly closing. In the bright light of the rapidly narrowing crack I see the lurking figure, and without the music hear his quietly menacing words.
“I saw you looking at me.”
“Get out!” Her voice is shaky trying to sell strong.
“Hey, fucker!!” I yell.
When I push the door open the man faces us. He does not try to run or escape our anger. Standing behind him is the woman, pressed against the counter. Her face has gone pale.
“Thought she motioned me to follow.”
There is no agitation or uneasiness in his voice as he tries walking past. The expressionless face says he doesn’t care if we believe the lie or not. Sounds like he has said it before.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Wes says.
The asshole has thirty pounds on me. But they are soft. I don’t give a fuck if they are made of steel. Grabbing ahold of his shirt, I smash him against a stall door. Then I bring my face to his. The smell of shitty aftershave almost makes me puke.
“You picked the wrong place, asshole. Don’t come back. We’ll cut off your shriveled dick and feed it to you. Got it?”
With a forearm across the guy’s neck, I go for his wallet.
“Let’s see who we have.”
Back pocket. I toss it to Wes, who belittles him and enjoys doing it.
“Look here. Mommy gave him his first grownup wallet.”
The decades old green cloth with a yellow stripe is flat as a pancake. Wes removes the driver’s license.
“Oscar DeLong. 3552 Harrison Way.”
“Take a picture of it.”
