Beautiful Beast by Aubrey Irons (19)

Full disclosure, I came here for one of the neon, sugary, ridiculous cocktails Floyd’s used to be famous for — maybe a side of fries or hot wings.

It doesn’t appear that’s going to be happening.

My dad and I used to come here on weekends when I was young. We’d sit in the corner booth, we’d order deep-fried crap and Cokes, and I’d enviously watch college-aged girls drink neon pink and blue drinks out of martini glasses while I fiddled with the jukebox dad gave me fifty cents for.

This is not the same Floyd’s.

There’s no food - fried or otherwise. No booths. No funny trinkets on the wall. The bar is dark, the music edgy, and a little lower than it should be. Three grungy guys in leather vests are playing pool.

The only neon is a flickering Budweiser sign on the wall.

Yeah, even the Hamptons has dark, scary dive bars. And I walked right into one.

I lied to Bastian — it’s a little scarier in here that I thought it was when I stepped in and decided I’d be staying for a drink. But between him, the history, and the train wreck we seem to be hell bent on heading for again, I had to get out of the house.

After the day before, in the music room?

I shiver, the feeling of his touch sending a tingle of heat through me that I try and shoulder away.

Well, let’s just say some distance felt necessary. A drink certainly did.

I chew on my lip as I ignore his call. This text flirtation is not what I need right now. A call will be worse. A call will have me heading right back there, right into whatever he wants from me. And that’s not “some distance,” that’s just getting sucked back in.

Pulled back into him.

…Like yesterday.

I shift in my seat, my body tingling as I quickly chase the thought away with a stiff swig from my glass.

“Whatcha drinking, honey?”

I glance up sharply at the grizzled, leathery man in a vest and denim, silver streaks in his beard and yellow ones on his teeth.

“Um, whiskey.”

“Strong drink.”

“Thanks.”

I turn away, pretending to look at something on my phone.

“Just that it’s normally a man’s drink.”

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

I don’t follow my own advice. I turn and give him a look.

“Well, you know, twenty-first century and all that.”

“Oh, I’m a feminist, sweetheart.”

I glance down at the topless woman with the huge breasts tattooed on his right forearm, and the “pussy: it’s what’s for dinner” lettering on the left one above what has to be the world’s grossest line-drawing interpretation of a vagina.

I force a smile.

“That’s wonderful for you.”

I start to turn back, but he’s not done.

“Or maybe it’s just that you like something meant for a man in your mouth.”

I cringe, turning and wrinkling my nose.

“Okay, that wasn’t even clever.”

“Ain’t trying to be clever.”

He nods at my phone.

“Who you texting?”

“My boyfriend.”

He grins that yellow, jagged smile.

“And why ain’t he here?”

“Oh, he’s on the way.”

The smile only gets wider.

“Sure he is, sweetheart.”

I turn back, sipping my drink and hoping he just leaves.

“This ain’t a place for you.”

“Excuse me?”

I turn back and swallow thickly. He’s got a friend with him now too. The new guy, with long, greasy hair hanging around his face, shrugs.

“Pretty girl like you, dressed up nice.”

I’m wearing jeans and a very plain, black tank top, for the record.

“You out here visiting? Big city New York chick out for the weekend?”

I frown. “I grew up here.”

The first guy snorts.

“Not here here.” He glances around. “Not this place, honey. Let me guess, Sag Harbor? South Neck or some richy place like that?”

I don’t say a thing, but he just leers harder.

“Rich chick, huh?”

“Not even fucking close.”

They suck their teeth.

“Daddy know his little princess talks like that?” Greasy hair asks, leering at me.

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to enjoy my drink before I go.”

“Thought your boyfriend was coming.”

“I’m meeting him.”

“I like that.”

I don’t answer.

“I like a girl that can’t lie.”

He grins.

“Means I know when she saying no but really saying yes. Know what I mean?”

I cringe, and I look to the bartender for help, but something about the completely disinterested way he shrugs and looks away says I’m not getting any help there.

I just wanted a neon cocktail.

“Why don’t you come over to our table?”

His touches my arm, and I flinch, pulling away and shooting him a look.

“Please don’t touch me.”

“See,” he grins, elbowing greasy-hair. “See now that’s a lie.”

“It isn’t.”

“Sure, sweetheart.” He chuckles. “C’mon, we’re a real friendly bunch.”

I slide off the stool and away from him - actually legitimately scared now, especially seeing as I’m the only woman here.

“I need to use the restroom.”

“You need help?”

“I think I’ll manage.”

“Don’t take too long, sweetheart.”

I shudder as I speed walk away from them.

I lock the bathroom door with shaky fingers and suck in breaths of air, the fear lancing through me.

Fuck, I need to get out of here.

I grab my phone, and I hate that I am, but I’m texting Tyler of all people. And I’m actually praying he’s still in the Hamptons.

The text hangs, in “sending “ limbo.

And hangs.

And hangs.

My heart sinks, as I glance at the top of my screen.

No service bars. You have to be joking.

I jump at the sound of banging on the bathroom door.

“You fall in, sweetheart?”

Croaked laughter follows, and I bite my lip, moving away from the door until my back is against the gross bathroom wall. I glance back at my phone, glowing against my face.

Still no service.

Something like resolve steels inside of me.

I’m going to make a break for it. I rationalize, if I can get outside, I can just run past them, get to the truck, and just drive the hell away, right?

I take a shaky breath, my hand reaching for the knob.

You can do this.

The lock flicks open, I slowly push the door open and step out of the bathroom…

And whatever nerve I had evaporates instantly.

There are three of them now. The first guy – yellow-teeth, greasy hair, and a new guy with a long, braided goatee, and all three stare at me as I freeze in the bathroom hallway.

“Hey princess,” greasy-hair growls, a dirty hand stroking his chin as he leers at me.

“I- my boyfriend’s outside.”

“No he ain’t.” Yellow-teeth grins wickedly. “But we’re in here.”

The fear hammers like a drum in my ear, my pulse galloping like a racehorse as my eyes flick from one of them to the other, and then past them to the door of the bar.

Suddenly, yellow-teeth’s hand closes around my wrist, hard. I gasp as he moves into me, pushing me back against the wall.

“I told you, baby, we’re a real friendly bunch.”

The air seems too heavy, my mouth feels numb as I try and make words - as I try and will my feet to just fucking run.

“Please, I- I have to go.”

He leers in close, his stale beer breath washing over me as his eyes narrow.

“Not yet you—”

“Have you ever had a pool cue shoved up your asshole?”

My heart jumps into my throat as the men whirl away from me at the sound of that voice.

Bastian.

Bastian in grey tweed dress pants and a crisp, tailored white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, silver Rolex gleaming. The beard and the hair, maybe, but the rest of him is so far from this place that he sticks out like - well, like a rich kid in a dive bar.

The men smirk.

“What’s your problem, pal,” yellow-teeth mutters, puffing his chest out.

Bastian smiles.

Well, they think it’s a smile. I know it’s not because I’ve seen it before.

I know it’s him preparing to strike.

Bastian shrugs. “No problem. I thought is was a simple question.”

He turns, casually steps over to the pool table, and grabs a cue stick from it. He hefts it in his hands, raising an arched brow at yellow-teeth.

“So? Legit question. I’m curious.”

“Go eat a dick, pal.”

The three of them chuckle and start to turn back toward me.

“No.”

Yellow-teeth sighs, turning back.

“Fuck off, pretty boy, we’re busy.”

“Would you like to try?”

The biker glares at him. “Jesus fuck, are you deaf? Try what?”

“A pool cue, up your ass,” Bastian says through grinning teeth.

“You some sort of queer?”

“I’m some sort of telling you to take your hands away from her.”

The three guys laugh, and greasy-hair turns to me.

“Shit, is this your boyfriend, sweetheart?”

“I’m done asking nicely.”

Yellow-teeth hisses and whirls, and I gasp at the blade he pulls out of his belt, glinting menacingly in the low light of the bar. He growls as he starts to step towards Bastian.

“Hey rich kid, FUCK OFF—”

He screams as Bastian suddenly grabs his wrist, shoves the knife away, and brings his right hand crashing into the guy’s elbow joint.

The sound makes me retch.

The man roars in agony, the knife clattering to the floor as the other two guys lunge at Bastian. He catches greasy-hair first, dodging his wild punch and hefting him up before sending him crashing into a table full of beer bottles. Goatee guy lands a punch on Bastian’s ribs that has him grunting, whirling back and crushing the guy’s nose with his fist.

Yellow-teeth starts to get up, when Bastian’s Armani-clad toe catches him in the side of the head, sending him reeling to the floor.

“Bastian!”

I scream as greasy-hair grabs the knife off the floor and lunges at his back. Bastian whirls, roaring as the blade rakes across his shoulder before he picks the guy up and physically throws him over the bar top and shattering into the shelves of bottles.

Red blooms over his dress shirt as he whirls again, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. Goatee makes one attempt at taking a swing with one hand holding his nose, but Bastian easily side steps it and lands another solid hit into his shattered face, sending him to the ground.

All three of them stay down.

The two other fairly drunk looking patrons on the other end of the bar just hold their hands up.

“Let’s go.”

I just nod as he grabs my wrist and pulls me after him.

He storms over to the now-ashen-faced bartender and tosses cash on the bar.

A lot of cash.

“That’s for the damage. Also I was never here.”

The bartender nods quickly, his eyes wide and scared.

Bastian separates two hundreds from the pile and slides them to the side.

“And that’s for the blue-and-white pickup truck outside, which someone will come for tomorrow. Not a fucking scratch on it. Nod if you fucking understand.”

The bartender nods faster than you could even imagine.

Bastian growls and takes a step toward him, making the guy flinch.

“Not one scratch.”

“I got it, man,” the bartender says quickly, still nodding.

Bastian’s hand tightens on my arm as he whirls and pulls me from Floyd’s, over to his jet black Aston Martin.

Bastian is off his property.

The seriousness of this suddenly hits me all at once, and I shake myself out of my daze and I turn to him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Let’s go.”

“Bastian, you’re—”

“Get in the car, Texas,” he growls, yanking my door open for me.

“Jesus Christ, you’re under house arrest, you could—”

“Yeah, not fucking lost on me,” he says quickly, glancing around us with sharp eyes before turning back to me.

“So what are—”

“Ana,” he hisses, his eyes fierce. “Get in the fucking car before I toss you in the trunk and drive you home that way.”

I get in the car.