Page 12 of The Viper
A man in uniform—Navy, I think—had bought me a second drink.
I’d told myself it was fine. I’d handled worse. He was handsome in that easy, American-hero way, all white teeth and swagger. I’d thought maybe, just maybe, this was how a normal night started.
Until it wasn’t.
Until another man appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my glass, and stopped me from drinking it. Until he had hit the Navy guy so hard I heard the air leave his lungs. Until chaos had swallowed everything.
Now, I was standing outside that same bar, the sound of shouting spilling through the open door behind me.
For a beat, I expected him—the stranger—to still be there. To explain. To give me something to hold onto besides the tremor in my hands. But he’d already turned, disappearing into the humid dark like he belonged to it.
No name. No goodbye. Just gone.
The first flash went off to my left. Then another. Then ten more.
“Lexi! Over here!”
“Who was that guy?”
“Lexi, smile!”
The air thickened with heat and breath and the metallic smell of the river. People spilled from the bar and off the sidewalk, phones raised like a garden of glass. Behind them, a few faces weren’t smiling. Curious, hungry, calculating. It was a look I’d learned early—some people want your selfie, some want a piece of you.
I lifted my chin, smoothing my expression into the mask I’d worn since I was nineteen. The press smile. The one that said:I’m human, but not yours.
“Hey,” I called lightly, stepping into the wedge of space a bouncer made with his body. “It’s late, y’all. I’m not doing photos tonight. Please be safe getting home, okay?”
The wordy’allbought me goodwill. It always did in the South. A drunk girl near the front squealed. A guy in a college T-shirt apologized to me and then asked for a hug, anyway. I dodged gently. The bouncer—broad as a door—angled his arm to funnel me along the brick.
“Side street,” he muttered in a low voice meant only for me. “We’ll get you clear.”
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.
He hustled me toward the curb. A car braked too hard—a rideshare driver, maybe hoping for a celebrity payday—but I shook my head and kept walking. The worst thing you can do in a crowd like that is stop. Stopping invites chaos. Stopping says,take more.
“Lexi, who was the guy?”
“Was that your boyfriend?”
“Did he hit a Navy officer—was that a Navy guy?”
Their questions chased me down the street, tripping over each other. I kept my smile soft, my eyes soft, mynosofter.
At the corner, I slid around a parked truck, ducked into the shadow of a narrow lane, and finally let myself breathe. I hated that I was shaking. I hated that my brain kept flashing images like a broken projector: the uniformed man’s easy grin; the casual, practiced tilt of his hand over my glass; the speed of the stranger’s fist; the thud of a body hitting the floor.
A low whistle cut through the night. The bartender—beard, kind eyes—jogged up the lane after me, not too close. Hands up like he was approaching a wild animal.
“You good?” he asked, voice gentle.
“I will be.”
He looked pained. “I’m sorry. I try to keep an eye … and then it’s busy … and?—”
“Not on you,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have come alone.”
His gaze dropped to my clenched fist.
“Want me to call you a car?”
