Page 5 of Hate You Later
“They’re perfect,” she agrees. “Wouldn’t change a thing.”
“That’s probably why you wouldn’t date these fries. You’d have nothing to fix,” I point out.
Kenna shrugs. “Then I’d marry them.” She holds up a fry, mouths the words “I do,” and then proceeds to kiss the French fry before popping it in her mouth. She has sauce drippings on her chin and winks as she accepts a napkin.
Suddenly, she freezes, mid dab. “I’ve got it. The solution to all our problems! You should marry a Holm!” Kenna punctuates her proclamation by shaking another chili fry at me. I duck to avoid an airborne droplet of meat sauce.
“Hear me out. You could take over the company, save the shelter, and get some help in the shop so you’d be free to live a life of luxury and leisure.” She pronounces leisure like “lezzure” with a fake British accent.
“I’d rather marry that biker in the back corner than Bryce Holm!” I gag for effect.
Kenna and I went to high school with Bryce Holm, the entitled, pompous, arrogant stepson of the head of the Holm company. He was a couple of years ahead of us and infamous. The perfect amalgam of every teen movie villain, minus the good hair.
“Doesn’t Bryce have an older brother? His dad was married before Bryce’s mom. European woman? I think she went back there with the kid.”
“Don’t know, don’t care.” I shrug and shudder. “Bryce Holm. Blech.”
As if on cue, summoned from the murky depths, I spy him coming toward us. Seconds later, I feel his hot, boozy breath on the side of my neck. Talk about manifesting. Is nothing sacred anymore? What the hell ishedoing in The Onion?
“Did I hear someone say my name? Can I buy you ladies a drink?”
I sneak a glance over my shoulder. It’s been a decade since high school, and the lights in the bar are dim, but I recognize Bryce Holm all the same. He’s fatter and his hair is thinning, but the signature swagger hasn’t changed. Same old smug-ass douchebag. His golf polo, pressed and creased jeans, and flashy watch are ridiculously at odds here in The Onion. I don’t know if he remembers us. But we certainly remember him.
Kenna and I exchange a look. Her eyes are wide and horrified. “Sorry!” she mouths, as if she’d conjured him up with that chili fry.
Bryce insinuates himself into the narrow space between me and the empty chair to my left.
“No thanks. We’re all good here,” I say, refusing to meet his eyes. Not that I’m in any danger of that. I’d have to have eyes in my DDs to meet his present gaze.
“Come on … whatever you want, princess.” He smirks, snapping his fingers officiously to get the bartender’s attention.
The bartender looks my way with a wary glance that asks, “You okay?” I can tell he’s struggling to remain impassive as I nod almost imperceptibly.
It appears that Bryce Holm has leveled up on the douchebag scale. His left hand, casually placed on the bar, sports a sausage-like ring finger with a diamond-studded wedding band. It’s so ostentatious it almost looks fake.
“I’m surprised you aren’t trying to get us to pay for you,” I mumble, still refusing to turn to face him. I can feel moist heat radiating off him as he angles himself toward me. I instinctively lean away, toward Kenna.
“Come on, princess, don’t you remember who I am?” He leans in closer. He’s wearing too much cologne. Barf. I count to five, taking stock of each of my fingers as I arrange them neatly into a fist. Try me.
“Uh-oh,” Kenna mutters under her breath.
I’m more than ready when Bryce Holm places his right hand on my shoulder, spinning me out to face him. His lizard eyes dart between my mouth and my boobs, and his hand slides down my spine to the small of my back. He licks his lips.
And then he’s down.
The pain blooming in my knuckles is nothing compared to the satisfaction of seeing the befuddled expression on Bryce’s face as his precious, denim-clad ass makes contact with the beer-tacky floor of The Onion. I shake out my hand and blow on my knuckles to cool them off.
Bryce’s face is a roadmap of shock. Pure shock. Then he squints, revealing rivers of pain. Finally, his face floods red. Anger.
“What the fuck?” He grabs on to a table to pull himself up and snatches a napkin, sending silverware flying dramatically. He spits into the napkin, inspecting it, looking for blood.
“Oh, come the fuck on. I didn’t hit you THAT hard,” I say. His balance just sucks. But there’d be a bruise. For sure, there would be a bruise.
“Did you see that?” Bryce gestures to Kenna and the bartender. The bartender shrugs impassively and fills a plastic cup with ice, which he then hands to Bryce.
“I think you of asked for it, man,” he says. “She’s a black belt. You’re damned lucky you still have your balls.”
Kenna sighs. She puts a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and then pulls on her coat before laying a tentative hand on my shoulder to get my attention. She holds out my furry coat.
