Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I’m still watching the dancing fool. “Because someone’s being an inconsiderate juke-hog.”
“No big deal. I like 80s mus—Hey, where are you going?” Pete perks up when he realizes I’ve left the table. “Bridge?”
I calmly move through the crowd, politely excusing myself as I make my way. I shouldn’t do this. I should turn back now. But whether it’s thoughts of all those men in my past, of my old man, or just pure vindictive pettiness, my feet keep moving. Others are dancing, too, and I try my best not to knock into anyone with my shoulders, despite the anger crawling out of my heart.
Every note of music is an attack from Anthony.
Every note is a ringing peal of laughter.
Mocking me. Cheering in victory over me.
Pushing me down.
One young woman steps on my foot, apologizes, then bats her eyes when she gets a look at me, in shock. Her date frowns and puts an arm possessively around her, pulling her attention away—a reaction I regret to say I’m used to. If only the insecure, jealous straight dudes of the world would figure out somehow that I’m no competition to steal their lady.
The only thing I’m out to steal right now is all the air from a certain jack-hole’s sails.
The moment I make it through to the other side of the crowd, Anthony spots me. And bless the gods, it’s perfect how my mere presence causes him to stumble on a ridiculous dance move he’s failing to pull off, not having expected me to seek him out. His girlfriend—just like the gal whose foot met mine halfway across the room—stops dancing at once to drink in the sight of me, her bubblegum lips parting and eyes widening in wonder.
Despite the tension twisted up tight in my heart by Anthony, I refuse to be petty and sink to his level of immaturity. I’m only here for one purpose: to liberate the jukebox for my friends. My goal is noble, right? Selfless? Admirable? “Pardon me, ma’am,” I say to the young woman in a sincere, gentlemanly tone, “but do you mind if I put on a different song?”
“You can put on or take off anything you like,” she answers.
I’m not sure I can dignify that with a response, whether on my face or in words, so I just nod respectfully at her, then tap a button or two on the jukebox. Aerosmith’s Walk This Way plays—a favorite of Pete’s for whatever reason, something sentimental to him—and I smile to myself. I nod again at the lady, then ignore Anthony as I turn and head back through the crowd to my table.
I only get halfway there when the music suddenly cuts off and shifts to something else.
Guns N’ Roses’ Back Off Bitch.
I close my eyes.
My body plays a game of tug-of-war with my heart.
Do I let this pettiness go? Do I stand my ground? At least it isn’t Take On Me again. Wasn’t the point just to change the music? Who cares if it isn’t playing Pete’s favorite? He’s probably deep in conversation with his pal Cody anyway, laughing about whatever, drinking their beers, not caring about the music.
But I care about the music.
And I care about shitheads winning when they don’t deserve to. I care about standing up for myself. If I don’t stand up, I may as well lie down and let every prick who’s ever crossed me walk over me like a rug.
I’m no one’s rug.
After a breath, I finally look back over my shoulder. Anthony’s leaning against the jukebox, his arms crossed, with a shit-eating smirk on his smug face.
Then I experience another wave of doubt. Don’t do it, I tell myself, remembering the gas station and the moment at the bar just now. Don’t do it, it isn’t worth it, don’t engage, just go back to your table. My presence over there won’t make this better. When a kid slings mud in the playground, don’t sling it back. It solves nothing. You tell yourself to ignore it, sticks and stones and all that, and leave children to play with children. No one comes home clean from a mud fight.
But then Anthony zeroes his eyes onto me.
And I see his lips move, singing: “Back off, back off bitch,” at the chorus, with his bright blue eyes alight and triumphant.
It boggles me, that eyes like that, which effortlessly summon the mystique of bright blue oceans, of cloudless summer skies, of countless sparkling facets of pale sapphires, are wasted on a man so depressingly devoid of integrity and character.
And those pretty eyes are eating this up.
Delighting in my anger.
He fucking loves this.
And despite all my resolve. Despite sticks and stones. Despite every lick of my better judgment built on years and years dealing with tougher, harder, far more savage adversaries in the Army.
I turn and head right back up to that jukebox.