There they are—the two guys from before. Standing just outside the stall, by the sinks, staring at me with a look in their eyes that I recognize and don’t appreciate.
“Hello there, pretty lady,” one of them says.
And it’s clear they’re not going to just let me leave.
I try to play it cool and walk to the sink to wash my hands. The larger one moves to block my path.
“Not so fast,” he says, standing in front of the sink. “We just want to know your name.”
“Please,” I grit out. “Let me wash my hands.”
But he refuses to budge.
“Fine,” I sigh, and start moving toward the saloon door. I have sanitizer in my purse. Which I now want to pour over every inch of my body.
God, why do some guys have to be so gross. So predatory.
Cornering women in the dirty bathroom of a dive bar. Pathetic.
But now the other one blocks my path, hemming me in.
It’s just me and them now.
The large one starts moving toward me. I’m cornered.
He reaches out for me, grabbing my forearm. I try to wrench it away, but he just holds on harder.
He leans toward me, his eyes glassy. “You’re going to pay for ignoring us, you dumb whore,” he says, spittle forming at the side of his mouth.
His friend steps closer and I shudder as one of his hands reaches out, and his gnarled finger caresses the side of my breast through the fabric.
“Stop touch—” My words trail off as the saloon doors fly open, and a looming figure appears like a dark specter. In the dim light, it’s hard to make out any details and, just for a second, I feel like I’m in the middle of a spaghetti western.
Two arms shoot out from the giant shadow, one hand grabbing the fingers that dare to caress my breast, and the other wrenching the larger man’s hand from my forearm.
“What the fu—” says the larger man.
The dark shadow doesn’t rush.
His hand closes around the smaller guy’s fingers slowly—like he’s deciding exactly how much pressure to use.
Then he bends them back.
The crack is sharp. Deliberate.
The small man whimpers, grabbing his arm to his stomach as he backs away, giving the shadow a chance to step into the light.
Soren.
Without warning, he rears his elbow back, connecting with the creep’s windpipe, knocking the breath out of him.
He sputters, trying to breathe, momentum knocking him onto his ass on the sticky, dark corner of the bathroom.
Soren rises up, turning his attention to the larger man.
“What the fuck are you doing, pal?” He smirks at Soren.
Who by now doesn’t appreciate being provoked.