Isha, Unscripted, page 10
“Guess people love drinking my deliciousness,” he teased.
I cringed, but then smiled and muttered, “Yeah, they do.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, you’ve definitely had enough.”
“Better call it a night.”
“Okay,” he said softly. “What are you doing after this?”
I squinted at him to get a better look at the shadows falling over him, the cut of his jaw, and the, uh, double heads? I blinked a few times. “Crash, probably.”
“Good. You’ll be going straight home. I hope things get resolved and you feel better.”
“Thanks. Me, too.”
I was a minute away from undoing my bun and running my fingers through my hair. Might as well not care if my hair looked frowzy and my shirt had droplets of dressing splattered across it like a two-year-old’s painting. My gaze faltered to my hands in my lap. Why the heck was I groping a tampon? I shoved it into my purse beside me.
“I came here to do something tonight and it’s not working,” I confessed, the disappointment unsubtly huge in my voice.
“Like what?” he asked.
“Never mind how wild this sounds, but there was supposed to be a celebrity here tonight,” I loud-whispered.
His brows furrowed.
“The pub’s owner’s brother’s . . . grandpa’s wifey or something . . . said he was coming,” I explained, my words starting to tumble on my tongue.
He nodded like, yeah, okay, sure. “What were you going to do with this celebrity?”
“Show him something,” I whispered even louder.
His right eyebrow shot up. “Ya don’t say?”
I grunted out a breath. “Not like that, you perv. It’s business.”
“Isn’t it always?” He smirked.
“Doesn’t matter. He never came.”
He watched me for a while before I asked, “What?”
He leaned over and tucked some loose hair behind my ear, letting his thumb linger for a second on my jaw. “Things will always get better.”
“You don’t even know what’s wrong.”
“Maybe one day you’ll tell me.”
“Pfft. Like on a date? I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Tarik,” he said, or so I thought he said. His response sort of trailed off when Rohan approached and Thirst-Trap (let’s be real, it was just better to call him that and not get attached) slid the chair back, scraping the legs against the floor, and relinquished the seat.
“He’s probably not coming,” Rohan said.
“Oh. Spoiler alert.” I sorta expected it by now, but why was I so overwhelmingly sad?
My chest ached. Hearing the official news swiped the last pillar of hope from underneath my legs, creating a crackling, sinking sensation. I was falling, and there was nothing to hold on to.
Three blows in one day. Ouch.
“You okay?” Thirst-Trap asked, his arm around my shoulder and pulling me toward him as I was falling against the seat.
“Oh my god . . .” I muttered against him before he released me.
I tossed back the last gulps of this stronger-than-ever water drink and stood. I wavered a teensy bit, but Thirst-Trap caught me by the waist.
Aw. Eff it. I wasn’t even drunk yet, but I was heady and slowly let slip the last bars of control. I wanted another drink. I wanted to not feel anything anymore, to lessen the burden of my failures.
“See? Your drinks are way too strong for me. Guess you didn’t call it as well as you thought you had,” I joked around the disappointment burning a hole through my chest, or was that the alcohol raging through my system? “And oh my lord, you smell so good. What is that? Bourbon?” I sniffed his neck, inhaling mild guy cologne mixed with all the scents of liquor and limes and cherries and olives. He was so warm and soft. Would it have been weird to lick his neck? Yeah. He probably wouldn’t like that. But like, dude was a deadly attractive vampire, so he was probably used to getting licked.
“Okay, Drunky McDrunkerson,” Rohan said, putting down his credit card and calling the waitress over with a raise of his hand.
But Thirst-Trap held me closer to his side when he asked, “Are you okay to walk?”
I waved him off. “I usually trip, but sure.” What the hell? Maybe I could just act drunker? People seemed to be happier that way, saying what they wanted, doing what they wanted, acting how they wanted. But as I stood there, a whoosh hit me, leaving me heady and really, really warm. Like wanna-take-my-clothes-off warm.
He looked to Rohan. “She’s not driving, is she?”
He scoffed. “Yeah, right. She never drives downtown. She only came because I drove. And I’m good to drive. Don’t worry, I always watch over her. And she doesn’t usually get this wasted. It’s just . . . a bad time for her.”
“Aw.” I gently smacked his cheek. “Shuch a gewd boi.” I glanced at Thirst-Trap and added, “Did I tell you he’s my little cousin? Baby of the family all grown up.”
The waitress hurried over to hand Rohan the bill and then muttered something to Thirst-Trap.
“I’ll be right back.” He excused himself, but as soon as the waitress returned with a receipt, I was tugging Rohan out the door. There was no reason to stay, to get sucked back into Thirst-Trap’s deliciousness.
“Oh! My purse!” I yelped, rushing back to the table before some thief made off with it.
Ah! It was still tucked into the corner of the booth, camouflaged against the dark blue colors. I grabbed it just as someone bumped into me for the twentieth time tonight! Argh!
“Hey, watch it!” I snapped, and dramatically rolled my eyes and my neck. Lord! Would these guys be pushing me all over the place if I looked anything like a model? No, they would not!
The guy shot me a surly look, so I squinted really hard at him. Couldn’t even put his masculine pride aside and look apologetic.
A-hole, I mouthed.
“Dude!” Rohan said, pulling me away by the elbow. “Calm down. No need to be yelling at people.”
Was I yelling?
I checked my purse as I stumbled toward the front, my head thrumming against the music and moving to the side and around the insurmountable size of the crowd beside the pool tables. God, like a writhing mass of six . . . ten . . . something large amount of people deciding to fuse together and walk around the pool table and bend over as one entity. They blinked at me with a dozen eyes.
I fished through my purse and accounted for all my belongings, including that most important emergency tampon, and craned my neck to check out why the billiards were so popular.
I’d pulled the script proposal out to fumble around for my phone, seeing that the outline of my wallet and keys could still be felt through the fabric of the inner compartments like giant, flat booties in skinny jeans, when someone shoved into me. Hard.
The script, and the attached flash drive pouch, flew out of my hands and somewhere into the pit of this absurd, looming darkness, in this madness.
That. Was. It.
“Watch where the hell you’re going!” I snapped.
I actually snapped. And not only that, but the giant buffoon of a dude didn’t even bother turning to apologize or make sure I was okay.
Ugh! I hated this place and all the stupid faces in it. “Yours is the stupidest!” I declared.
Now, where in the world was my freaking proposal?
I looked all over the floor, searching the shadows with squinted eyes, short of actually squatting and running my hands over the disgusting ground. Squinting plus the dim lighting plus the number of people equated to me nearly losing my mind in a tipsy freaking rage.
With nausea rolling up my throat, I bent over to get a better view of the floor under tables and seats. A purple folder was sure to stick out! Oh, wait. How was a not-glow-in-the-dark purple folder going to stand out in the shadows?
“What happened? Are you okay? Why the hell are you on the floor?” Rohan asked, suddenly at my side, startling me.
Was I? Ew. I jumped up and immediately clutched the back of the bench-style seating in front of me and heaved. Everything went in and out of clarity, people slowing down and speeding up.
“Oh my lord! I almost hit you!” I slurred.
“Sure. If you can even see me . . .”
“Har har. I dropped my folder. Help me find it.”
He looked around and walked this way and that, farther and farther, to search until he melted into the room and became one with the darkness. Sadness rushed through me. Aw. Bye, Rohan.
“Wah!” I wailed, practically on my knees again. “Where are you?”
My back spasmed, forcing me to come back up, rising out of the stench of shoes, when the sudden movement sent my head into dizzy mode. Ooh. I wobbled forward and landed my forearms on the back of the bench-style seating dividing the room.
I huffed and puffed as the woman directly in my line of vision sitting across the table gave me a WTH look so serious, she could’ve won a gold medal in the meanie games. My eyes dropped to her man-escort directly below me, his dark hair practically crawling out of his head like tangled worms. Ew. Dude, take a shower.
Beside him was a stack of books and folders. Maybe he was a college kid. Or . . . actually I dunno what else. Why else did he have a stack of paperwork at a bar? Was he at meetings late into Saturday night? Who did that?
I thrust myself against the back of the bench for support, except the force of my impact sent something from the top of his stack flying over the edge and onto the floor between their table and the one to the right.
“Sorry,” I groaned, or hissed, or yelled. Honestly, I was just happy that my arms had caught me, like little helpers, against the back of the bench seating instead of my face. So sue me for clinging for another minute to push away the headiness that had me tipping over.
Both the woman and the man-escort reached down to pick up the folders and papers and had a moment of giggling. Aw. So shweet. At least someone was having a cute time. Minus the scowl-of-nightmares she kept shooting at me like I was trying to take her man.
I rolled my eyes. Dude. No one wanted her wormy-haired guy.
What looked like a purple folder, I mean, who could tell, flashed like a light bulb, for some reason, as the guy took the stack of folders and shoved them into his messenger bag.
I reached for the stack, tipping over the back of the bench with my butt practically in the air. Ah, see! This was why I didn’t wear skirts in public.
“Hey!” he said, twisting around and hugging his stuff to his chest.
“Dat’s mine,” I said, swiping the air but not quite close enough. My fingertips scraped against the paper. Oh, cruel world.
“What? Are you drunk? This is mine.”
“Naw. Dude. I had a few drinks, but I’m cool. That one on top is mine. Read it,” I insisted, pulling myself closer to him but still so distant. Ugh, why was this bench in the way and pushing me out inch by inch? I reached and reached, but still so far. I swear, if this bench was conspiring with the man-escort, I was going to beat the stuffing out of it.
“Don’t fight me,” I mumbled, “I’ll cut a bench up.”
“Did you just call me a bitch and threaten to cut me?” the guy croaked.
“What’s your problem?” the woman said, now grabbing the rest of the stack and keeping all things away from me, even as I made grabby hands.
“This isn’t yours,” the guy repeated, slipping away from me.
“Yeah? Then show me. My name’s on it,” I insisted.
“I don’t have to show you anything.”
“Thief!” I gurgled as I toppled forward.
Whoopsie! I felt myself go top-heavy and definitely fell forward onto the seat, my face hitting where he’d been sitting. It was still warm from his butt. Eck. Butt-face.
I struggled to push myself up and back when someone backed into me. An entire crowd of people standing around, talking, laughing, semi-dancing to music, had cornered me into this very uncomfortable and highly compromised position. Pants over skirts for the win, tonight and every night!
I shoved off the bench as the woman and man-escort took their things, and my freaking-frick proposal, and shuffled out the door, throwing me crazy-eye stares like I was the messed-up one. Bro, they’re the ones who just stole my property!
“Hey! Stop!” I shouted.
Struggling to just stand upright had me pushing my butt against someone who stood way too close. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move as the crowd locked me into place, as the darkness grew and breathed and fused people together.
“Excuse you!” I said.
“No worries,” someone said.
“All the worries!” I grunted.
Another shove, another bump, another unsavory touch. All against me.
Agh!
I spun around, the anger of a thousand fiery suns reincarnated in my soul about to detonate. I shoved the guy back. Hard. My arms actually ached and my wrists went pew, pew, pew! I wasn’t sure if I’d developed arthritis or just cracked my joints. But oh my lord. I’d actually assaulted him. Sure, he was well over six feet and burly, but he was holding a drink and my shove of rage, amped up by aggravated strength, pushed him forward.
He stumbled. His beer rose out of his mug like a frothy, smelly geyser. It happened in slow motion. Of course. Because karma wanted me to pay attention tonight. I wasn’t sure why, but I was about to find out.
His eyes went wide, comically wide, and his mouth gaped open. The woman in front of him yelped and jumped. She failed the slow-motion test. She was just normal. But she should’ve been faster. His beer splashed all over her, splattering her face, neck, shirt, and arms.
Everyone in the immediate area froze. Some paused in surprise. Others moved out of the way and flicked beads of beer off themselves, because who wanted to be doused in that stinky stuff? Others, I assumed her friends, glared at me with demon wrath glowing in their beady eyes. Others snickered or laughed or cringed. Just enough faces came in and out of the singular shadow entity of merged bodies for me to know that I’d just made a scene.
“Oh my god! This is an expensive outfit!” she cried, throwing back her dirty-blond hair. Then she demanded, “What’s your problem? You’re going to pay for this!”
“I’m so—” I began to apologize and then wondered why I was always apologizing. Why did women always apologize, especially women of color? “Dude. He’s the one who spilled it on you.”
“You pushed me,” he growled. Actually growled. WTF?
“Bro. Calm down. Li’l me got that kinda strength? And you were pushing me into the wall over here. Y’all owe me an apology!” I bellowed, poking a finger into my chest.
“I can’t lose you for one minute, can I?” Rohan asked, pushing through the circle of onlookers being all lookie-loos.
“Oh, I think there’s going to be a fight,” the woman said, all sassy head-bobbing and glowering.
I guffawed. “All one hundred pounds of you? In those heels?” I clucked my tongue. Although impressive if she could fight in heels.
“Yes.”
“Oh! Wait! Wait! Wait!” I grabbed the beer from the big dude’s hands as he watched, stunned by the drink kidnapping.
“Yo, what are you doing?” he demanded.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get your cheap beer back.” I laughed. “Hold on. Okay. Okay. Say that again,” I instructed the woman, holding the beer in one hand and my bag in the other.
“We’re going to fight?” she asked, moving her neck back and forth, but also looking a little confused.
“Oh, please. My mother’s Indian. She does that side-to-side neck thing in her sleep. Stop appropriating my culture,” I spat, doing the side-to-side neck thing better than she ever could.
“What?”
“Yes. You probably do yoga and drink chai tea lattes and golden drinks from Starbucks. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing! Okay. Okay. Stop messing me up, for real.”
“We’re definitely taking this outside,” she declared.
With a straight face, I shoved the beer back into the guy’s hands and said, “Hold my beer.” And then I laughed. Like freaking hard. I couldn’t help it, I was cry-laughing . . . cralaffliling. When was I ever going to use that line? I was practically slapping my knee in amusement. And yeah, it got some chuckles out of a few people watching.
“You owe me a beer,” the guy said, now hovering over me.
“Shut. Up,” I slurred, swinging my arm around to give him what for, thinking he could just intimidate women and boss me around when he never apologized for bumping into me!
With a fierce swing of my arm to get my hands into his face, my purse went flying with it. Oh yeah. Forgot I was holding a purse. Anyway, it was enough momentum and weight from my laptop to almost hit him smack in his douchey face. Except he put his arms up. Guy that big and couldn’t even take a hit? Pfft!
He stepped back from my swing . . . and toppled over a chair.
He fell with a thunderous crash, making my heart skip a beat because ouch, knocking a table clear over. Food and drinks went flying. The guys who’d been sitting there jumped to their feet and pushed him up, cursing him out. But he came out of that mess belligerent and swinging at them.
Oops. I stepped back as Rohan snatched my arm and dragged me out of the crowd.
An actual bar fight broke out. I’d never thought I’d ever see one in my life, much less be the one who started it. Where was my phone, though? I needed to livestream this!
The woman tried to pull the guys apart, but her guy friend/man was more pissed than ever. Rohan and I were already at the door when she yelled after me to get my bleeping-bleep back there.
“Yeah, right,” I cackled.
“Come on!” Rohan said, pushing me through the doors first.
As we hurried past the line of people waiting to get in, I mean good for this place for having an actual line, I swore the man-escort with the messenger bag was getting into a car across the street.
