ONE
Anna
I stumbled through the dirt parking lot toward the bar with shoes that had rubbed my sockless feet raw, keys to a car that wouldn’t run, a dead cell phone, and a menstrual cycle that was as unpredictable as the Texas weather.
I hoped one of the patrons would be more courteous than the twenty or so cars that passed by me on the highway without offering so much as a helping hand. The three raggedy pickup trucks and two motorcycles in the parking lot provided little reassurance my hope would be met. At least at 2:30 in the afternoon, I knew I’d be safe going in alone.
I reached for the door, hesitated, and then pushed it open. The putrid stench of piss, vomit, and stale beer hit me like a speeding freight train.
Angry that my car was broke down, angrier that my period started four days early, and aggravated even more that the battery on my cell phone mysteriously went from 72% to completely dead in the twenty-five-mile drive from Uvalde to wherever the fuck I was, I allowed my eyes to adjust from the bright Texas summer sun to the pitch black bar.
Three drunken men and the bartender stared back at me. Another man seated at the bar appeared to be inebriated and stared at his half a glass of beer.
Perfect.
I wiped my sweaty face on my forearm and tossed my head toward the door. “Car broke down a few miles back on 90, and my phone’s dead. Any chance I can use your phone?”
The thirty-something year old douchebag bartender’s white-framed sunglasses were resting on his forehead as if on display. He tilted his head toward a man sitting at the bar. “Pete fixes shit. He’s smarter’n fuck. He might be able to fix it.”
The man raised his head ever-so-slightly and offered a drunken grin. “God damned truth. I fix broke shit.”
“I’ve had problems with it for years. I probably need to have it towed somewhere.” It dawned on me the bill for towing it would probably be more money than the car was worth. “I’ll need a phone book too, my phone’s dead.”
Pete the fix-it man finished what little beer was left in his glass. His comb-over and sun spots made him appear to be sixty years old, although I guessed he wasn’t much older than thirty-five.
“Said that already,” he said dryly.
“Excuse me?”
“Your phone’s dead. You said it twiced.”
Twiced?
And you’re the smart one here?
After walking out of a shitty relationship three years later than I probably should have, I’d driven half the distance between Laughlin Air Force Base in Del Rio, Texas, and San Antonio. In the middle of nowhere with minimal cash, no credit cards, and what I suspected would be an extremely pissed off ex-boyfriend as soon as he found out I was gone, my options were minimal.
I shot the bartender a smile. “The phone, a phone book, and a glass of water would be nice.”
“Phone’s behind the bar.” He grinned mischievously. “You’ll have to come back here to use it.”
The thought of being behind the bar with him wasn’t an appealing one. While I considered leaving and walking to the next bar, I suddenly felt surrounded.
Maybe it was because I was.
I glanced over my shoulder. The three men had gathered behind me, blocking me from leaving. Going over them or through them were my two choices.
“I’ll give ya a ride,” one of them said.
Another chuckled. “Hell, I’d rather ride her.”
I felt sick. I was cramping from my period, my feet were covered in blisters, and I was sunburnt from walking for an hour in the hot Texas sun. The last thing I wanted was to be harassed by three drunken idiots.
“Looks like ya excited her, Luke. Her nipples got hard,” the first one said.
My white shirt was soaked with sweat. Compared to the temperature outside, the air conditioned bar felt like Antarctica. He was right. My nipples were hard. It had nothing to do with the drunken fools ogling me, though. I glanced toward the bartender in hope of a little help.
“He ain’t lyin’, Luke,” the bartender said with a nod. “Her nipples are hard. Look at ‘em.”
Thanks, you fucking asshole.
A sinking feeling filled me. There was no doubt I stepped into the wrong bar at the wrong time. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and managed to swallow a wad of dry apprehension.
“Excuse me.” I tried to step between them.
The one on my right grabbed my arm. “Where are you goin’? Thought you was broke down? You ain’t got anywhere to be. Hell, let’s party.”
I tried to pull away. “Let me go.”
His grip tightened. “She’s a fighter.” He chuckled a dry laugh. “A feisty little bitch.”
“Let me go.” Nervously, my eyes darted around the bar. Everyone appeared to be willing to join in on the abuse except for Pete, who sat at the bar with his head hung low.
“Call the police,” I shouted, hoping Pete would be sympathetic enough to challenge the drunken fools to let me go.
“Police?” He chuckled and spun halfway around on his barstool. “Fer what? To break up the party?”
Hands came from everywhere. One grabbed my arm. Another tugged at my shirt. Someone squeezed my boob. I screamed and twisted my body, hoping to free myself from their grasp, but it only made matters worse. Everyone seemed to be touching me at the same time. Then, someone slapped my face.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” One of them said. “One more scream out of you, and I’ll cut ya.”
The next thing I knew, I was being dragged by my hair toward a booth in the corner of the bar by one of them while the remaining men did nothing to help me. In fact, they shouted to cheer him on. The apprehension I thought I’d swallowed turned to fear, and I choked on it.
Drunken shouts of blowjobs, dick sucking and I bet she’s got a sweet little pussy gave warning to what was next. In my 26 years on earth I had been in the presence of thousands of drunken military men, walked home alone while drunk, woke up in strange places, and had gone on a few dates with some pretty questionable guys – but I’d never felt like I would be a victim of rape.
At 5’-6” and 130 pounds, I offered little resistance against the man who was fighting to unbutton my shorts. Nonetheless, I voiced a hoarse objection until someone smothered my mouth with their hand.
My shorts were ripped down my thighs. Someone began to tug at my panties. I bit into the hand that covered my mouth and made an effort to scream.
“Heeelp!”
My plea got tangled in my fear, and came out dry and unintelligible. The darkness that surrounded me had nothing to do with the fact the bar was poorly lit. The pit of my stomach began to ache, and I felt like I might not make it out of there alive.
I’d never been religious, but I started to pray, nonetheless. A sliver of light from the front door brightened the otherwise dark bar. Pressed into the seat of the booth with hands groping me from all directions, I couldn’t see the door or who was either coming or going, but I swallowed hard and then shouted for help nonetheless.
“Help! They’re raping me!”
“Shut the fuck up,” one of them hissed.
A hand slapped my face.
I dragged my tongue along my front teeth and tasted blood.
You son-of-a-bitch.
“Best bet is for you to just turn around and leave,” I heard one of them say.
“Yeah, you and that bitch hair,” someone else warned.
The unmistakable sound of boot heels against the wooden floor grew closer.
“You deaf, motherfucker?” one of the men asked.
I felt like a weight was lifted from me.
“Hey motherfucker,” the man on top of me shouted. “What the fuck…”
He, too, was pulled off me. Free from everyone’s grasp, I sat up and looked around. The darkness was gone, and had been replaced by a sliver of light from the door that was somehow propped open slightly.
An extremely muscular man with shoulder-length brown hair and arms covered in tattoos stood amidst the three assholes who were trying to destroy my life.
Wearing worn jeans, boots, and a white wife beater, the new patron looked rough.
A safe kind of rough.
Having spent most of my life on military bases, I recognized most military insignia tattoos. One of his many tattoos stood out against the others. At least to me. The US Marine Corps’ Eagle, Globe, and Anchor provided me with hope that he would at least have enough courage to challenge the men for what they had been doing.
“Come here.” He extended his left hand and helped me from the booth. “Get in your car and go. I’ll take care of this,” he assured me.
I had no idea who he was, but of everyone in the bar, I felt he was the only man I could trust. I straightened my panties, buttoned my shorts, and stepped to his side. “My car’s broke down on the highway,” I said. “I walked here.”
He reached for his wrist, removed a hair tie, and quickly twisted his hair away from his face. “Go stand by the black Harley in the parking lot.”
“Just havin’ a little fun,” the one who was trying to pull off my panties said.
“You’re a fucking liar,” I snapped. “You were ripping my clothes off.”
The other two men spread out, stepping to the side of the idiot who was fondling me. I wasn’t about to go to the parking lot and leave my would-be savior alone. I was madder than I was scared, and I wanted to see someone pay for what happened to me. I walked to the edge of the bar and waited.
“Hey, hair tree. There’s no fightin’ in this bar. The boys was just havin’ fun,” the bartender said.
“Busting my lip and trying to gang fuck me isn’t having fun, you asshole,” I snarled.
One of the idiots turned his hat around backward and raised his fists. Apparently he was ready to fight.
Or, so he thought.
The man with the ponytail kicked his right foot into the chin of the asshole standing in front of him, knocking him to the floor. Before the other two men could react, he spun in a circle, hitting one of them with the back side of his fist. His free hand then shot toward the third man’s throat.
In a matter of five seconds, all three men were on the floor, moaning. The distinct sound of a pump shotgun being pumped shifted my attention toward the bar.
The bartender pointed the barrel directly at my Ponytail donning friend.
Where the fuck was that when I was being raped, asshole?
“It’s over. Get your long-haired ass out of here before you get yourself shot, stranger.”
Ponytail turned toward the bartender. “You might want to put that away before I take it from you.” he scoffed.
“I’m not playin’,” the bartender said.
Ponytail coughed a dry laugh. “Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”
Slowly and methodically, Ponytail walked toward the bar. Pete’s drunken eyes widened with each step he took. By the time the he reached the bar, Pete was off his stool and against the far wall. The bartender stood with the shotgun leveled, the shaking barrel a clear expression of his underlying fear.
Now standing within arm’s reach of the bartender with the barrel of the shotgun just a few inches from his face, Ponytail gave his demand. “I’ve killed more men than I can count, and adding you to the list wouldn’t bother me one fucking bit. You should have pulled that shotgun on the three pricks who were raping the poor girl, you worthless motherfucker. Now, put it down before you piss me off.”
The bartender lowered the shotgun slightly. As the barrel reached the height of the bar, Ponytail pulled it from the bartender’s hands with lightning-fast speed.
Holy shit.
With his eyes fixed on the bartender, he disassembled the shogun, tossed half of it on the floor, and turned toward me with the barrel in his hand. He nodded toward the row of empty booths.
“Is that your purse?” he asked.
Shit.
I stared for a few seconds before I responded. I couldn’t help it. Despite what had happened, my mind was thirty seconds into a daydream about my savior lathering himself up in a shower while I sucked his cock and drank champagne.
I shook my head in an effort to clear it of my lustful visions. “Yes,” I responded. “Thank you.”
He bent down and picked it up. “Ever ridden on a bike?”
He was intimidating. Not the scary kind. The holy shit this guy is hot kind. I swallowed hard and gave an affirmative nod.
“Yeah,” I lied.
He pushed the door open and gestured toward a black Harley sitting beside the door. “Guess we’ll get a beer somewhere else, huh?”
He’d just saved me from being gang raped and possibly killed, and acted like it was nothing. I admired the black and chrome motorcycle and feigned indifference. “Guess so.”
He tossed the barrel of the shotgun toward the far end of the parking lot. It bounced across the gravel with hollow clanking sound, eventually coming to rest in the weeds of an adjoining field.
Without expression, he tilted his head toward the motorcycle. “Saddle up.”
I had no idea who he was, where he was from, or why he stumbled into the bar when he did. I really didn’t care. I did know that he saved me from being gang raped by no less than three sickening pigs, and I was beyond grateful for that.
I got my sunglasses out of my purse and raised my leg over the seat. “I’m Anna.” I lowered my tone to a whisper. “Anna Marie Mc Cay.”
“Knox,” he said. “Fisher Knox. And you better hold on, I ride hard.”
I never would have guessed.