J McKenna: Naughty girl

She’d come into the downtown Santa Barbara bar that night with a man who oozed money. Carl Harman immediately pegged her as a gold digger—how could he not, the way they were so mismatched? He could see the same thought in the eyes of the other single men in the crowded bar.

Honey-Blonde—which was how Carl thought of her at first—was young and sexy while her companion was older and more oily. His body, once muscular, had gone soft. His thinning black hair was combed straight back over beady eyes. His only saving grace was a row of white, even teeth, perfect for a false smile. He reminded Carl of a used car salesman. To attract a gal like that, he had to be loaded. Women who’d trade their youth for old money usually didn’t interest Carl. But she was the exception.

Car Salesman led her to the bar a couple of stools down from Carl and ordered a stiff scotch for himself and a white wine for her. The man spoke in a loud voice and seemed to treat the girl like an accessory.

Carl, sitting at the bar nursing his drink, tried not to pay attention to her. That quickly proved to be impossible when he noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra under her gray silk blouse. He could see the round shape of her breasts and the hint of her nipples. She was in her late twenties and had medium-sized breasts, so she didn’t really need a bra. Still, a woman who walked into a bar braless made Carl wonder about what else she might be missing underneath her navy blue wrap-around skirt.

Now that she had his full attention, he took in other details. She stood about five-seven, so Carl, at six feet, imagined that he wouldn’t have to lean over too far to kiss her, and her perfectly heart-shaped ass would be at just the right height to run his fingers over it. His hand itched at the mere thought. Her face reminded him vaguely of Faye Dunaway in her prime—beautiful blue eyes, strong cheekbones and jaw, although softer somehow, more demure. Her honey-blonde hair seemed natural to Carl, though he wondered if the drapes matched the carpet. He smiled at his own crude joke and took another sip of his martini.

Carl noticed that when Car Salesman wasn’t looking, the young woman’s eyes glanced about the room as if she were searching for someone. Only later did he find out she was looking for someone to rescue her—or why she couldn’t rescue herself.

Car Salesman proceeded to get drunk in short order. Perhaps he could tell that his grip on Honey-Blonde was slipping and he was determined to be a real horse’s ass before it all ended. Or perhaps he just couldn’t help himself—maybe he treated everybody this way. Carl minded his own business, nursing his drink.

He was in-between girlfriends at the moment and feeling a little sorry for himself. He’d been idly thinking about renting a video on the way home. After he spotted Honey-Blonde, he thought perhaps an adult video might be better. She had that effect on him. He never expected he’d get any closer to her than he was at that moment, two stools down in a bar full of TGIF’ers.

But when Car Salesman suddenly tossed the remains of his drink on her and, in a loud voice, accused her of flirting, the White Knight in Carl woke up. Everyone else seemed to stare then edged away, as if they didn’t want to get involved in a lovers quarrel. Or maybe Car Salesman’s sudden rage made them fearful. Though going to seed, he still had the look of a brawler.

Carl couldn’t stand it. He came off his stool and approached them before he was even aware he had moved.

“Hey, now,” he said, trying to be chivalrous without seeming like he was trying to steal Honey-Blonde away because, frankly, he wasn’t at that moment.

Then he saw her sad, tired expression and how the man’s drink had splashed over her chest, causing her left nipple to show clearly through the sheer material. Carl fell just a little bit in love with her right then.

Car Salesman turned his sudden fury on Carl. “Mind your own fuckin’ bizness or I’ll shove your head up your ass.”

He made Carl instantly angry. He struggled to get a firm grip on his temper. It was as if an avalanche was being held back by a single log against a rock. He strained to hold that log in place.

Carl turned his eyes fully on the man and gave him his best “Don’t-Fuck-With-Me” look. But the man was too drunk to notice. In fact, Carl believed he was itching for a fight. Perhaps, long ago, he had rescued Honey-Blonde from another old, drunk Alpha Male and thought he might regain some of his power by defeating some upstart.

“Where I come from,” Carl said evenly, “men don’t throw drinks at the ladies. It’s usually the other way around.” He could feel the log shift against the rock in his head.

Now if Car Salesman had laughed, or calmed down or apologized to the woman, the moment would have passed, and that would’ve been the end of it. But somehow Carl knew none of those things would happen. Something evil flickered in the man’s eyes and the tumblers in his drunken brain seemed to click into place.

The man reared back, so Carl saw the punch coming from about a half-mile away. Maybe ten years ago and maybe if the man wasn’t drunk, he might’ve been able to catch him with it. Carl doubted it, but he was trying to be kind. He had about a half-hour to decide which way to lean to avoid the callused hand and how to place his feet to get the maximum power into his own punch. As Car Salesman’s fist creaked by him—no doubt lightning speed from his vantage point—Carl popped him a good one right in the nose and stepped back.

Car Salesman wasn’t sure he’d been hurt until he felt the blood spill out onto his shirt. He clamped a hand to his face and howled, his eyes already beginning to water. Focusing all his hatred in Carl’s direction, Salesman wanted to kill him, to dismember him, but Carl could tell he suddenly realized he was at a disadvantage—Carl wasn’t the pushover he’d thought he was. Carl could see his mind working. Mentally, he begged him to back down as he strained to hold his avalanche of anger in check.

But no. Car Salesman’s eyes cast about for a weapon—a harpoon, a howitzer—anything massive enough to end this fight quickly and with maximum damage. Carl believed the man was fully prepared to kill him in that moment.

The drunk lunged to his right and grabbed a chair from an empty table. It was one of those wood and wicker jobs that weigh about twelve pounds—hardly the right choice, although it would’ve stung quite a bit to be hit with it. Apparently it was all he could manage on the spur of the moment.

Carl almost shook his head as he mentally kicked the log free and allowed the rush of anger and adrenaline to overtake him. The light took on a reddish tint. His vision narrowed to include only the angry drunk in front of him. Car Salesman’s already slow reaction time became glacial in Carl’s accelerated vision. Before he had that chair up high enough to smash him in the head, Carl had chopped him up with three quick strikes. Left to the head, right to the stomach, then pivoted into a right uppercut. He followed with a leg sweep and a shoulder push that sent the drunk crashing to the floor.

He didn’t get up. Carl really wanted him to. He thought seriously about kicking him a few times, but he resisted the urge. Slowly, the red haze cleared and he became more aware of the rest of the room.

He turned to the man’s wide-eyed companion. God, she was beautiful, he thought all over again. “Are you all right?”

Carl wondered if she was one of those women who immediately would fall to their companion’s side, regardless of how he’d treated her, and rail against the bully who hurt him.

She seemed stunned. She looked down at her groaning companion, then up at Carl, then down at her nipple that was doing its best to poke through the material of her blouse. She didn’t answer at first, as if trying to sort out her emotions. She reached down and plucked the blouse away from her breast. Carl was sorry to see her nipple go.