Shannon Waverly - Three For The Road

A table went over, glasses sliding and smashing to the floor. The room resounded with the smack of fists, with grunts and fabric ripping, and like in a movie, it was all set to music—”Welcome to Earth, Third Rock from the Sun”—thumping from the jukebox.

At least they seemed evenly matched, Mary Elizabeth thought, watching them go at it—though she did sense a quickness in the taller man that Sonny lacked.

What Sonny had was a mean streak. She watched in horrified silence as he grabbed a beer bottle off the bar, smashed it against the brass rail and lunged at her tall dark stranger.

“Get out of here,” he called to her just before the jagged bottle came down on the side of his forehead. Immediately blood beaded along the gash.

Rather than rattle him, the cut seemed to deepen his anger and resolve. He picked up a chair and slammed it against Sonny’s arm, dislodging the broken bottle from his grip. Then he pushed Sonny against the bar where he kept him pinned until Sonny looked ready to give up.

Mary Elizabeth had no idea where the third guy came from, but suddenly there he was, gripping the dark stranger’s shoulder, swinging him around and landing a blow to his midsection that made her nauseated.

Logic told her she should use the diversion to slip away. Nobody was interested in her anymore. Yet she couldn’t leave. It was clear that the man who’d come to her aid was as much a stranger in this bar as she was, while Sonny was a local, and if she abandoned him, he’d probably get pulverized by Sonny’s friends.

She shouldn’t care, she told herself. She didn’t know this man, she’d never see him again, and if he was in a bar like this he was probably accustomed to fighting, anyway. Besides, she had a responsibility to the tiny life inside her. That especially had her concerned.

But if she slunk away now, what sort of person would that make her? How would she ever face herself in a mirror?

Without another second’s thought, she dug into her purse for the plastic gun. Tossing her bag onto a nearby table, she gripped the gun in two hands and flexed her knees. “All right, everybody freeze!” she called out.

Nobody heard. The debacle continued.

“Hey!” she hollered, affronted. This time a few onlookers turned. She heard someone say, “She’s got a gun,” and was pleased that the person sounded at least somewhat alarmed.

Within seconds the word passed. Attention turned on her like a tide. Those nearby backed away. A few people slipped out the door.

“Stop fighting,” she shouted. “Stop!” To her utter amazement, they did. The three men turned and looked at her, then each of them swore, different epithets, but all at the same time.

“Now...get against the wall there,” she ordered as she searched her memory for anything else she could borrow from the police movies she’d seen.

The three men moved, amazing her once again. A hush had fallen over the place. Even the jukebox had obediently shut down.

“Good.” She straightened, feeling a heady sense of power. “Now, you...” She waved the gun at the bartender. “I want you to call the police, and this time don’t tell me there’s a pay phone.”

In the dead silence, Mary Elizabeth became aware of sirens wailing in the distance. Confused, she glanced at the young woman behind the bar who made a face that said, What do you think I am, an idiot?

In no time flat, blue-and-red lights were throbbing against the windows, dueling with the neon. The doors banged open and six uniformed officers hurried in, straight to the heart of the fray.

“Thank God you got here so fast,” Mary Elizabeth said, but the officers coming toward her didn’t return her smile. In fact, every one of them had drawn his weapon.

“Drop the gun,” one of them ordered.

She looked at each of the six faces, at each of the six guns pointed her way. “What...?” All at once, she realized what was happening. “Oh. You think...”

But before she could explain the gun was only a toy, three of the policemen had cocked their pistols. She dropped the gun.

A policewoman immediately lunged forward, grasped Mary Elizabeth’s right wrist and twisted her arm up behind her back. Another officer, a serious young man with a dedicated, boyish face, carefully picked up the fallen gun.

After that, events swam together in a dreamlike sequence: across the room, the bartender talking excitedly, pointing this way and that; the odious Sonny saying, “But...but he...but...”; and the tall dark stranger scowling at her, Mary Elizabeth, where a moment ago he’d been duking it out on her behalf.

“Sonny, Sonny,” a craggy-faced sergeant scolded, shaking his head. “It isn’t even Saturday night.”

Sonny returned a sheepish grin.

“Okay, let’s go,” the sergeant said. It was then that Mary Elizabeth noticed the handcuffs glinting on the three men’s wrists. No, that’s a mistake, she wanted to cry out. The tall one is a good guy. But just then she heard the officer who’d picked up her gun reading her her rights. At the same time something cold and metallic encircled her own wrists.

Mary Elizabeth’s face drained of color. “You’re handcuffing me? ”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But there’s obviously been a misunderstanding.”

“We’ll straighten it out at the station. Do you have a purse?”

“Uh, yes.” Mary Elizabeth indicated a nearby table.

The officer picked up her bag and said, “Come with me, please.”

Mary Elizabeth was led through the gawking crowd, close on the heels of her tall, dark stranger. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, her eyes hot with humiliation.

“Why the hell not?” he snarled over his shoulder. “Acting as stupid as you just did, you must land in messes like this all the time.” His hard lips curled as he muttered something that sounded to her like “Liverpool.” She frowned in confusion until she reasoned he’d said “Little fool.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“You should be.”

Outside, she was led to a cruiser, while the three men were taken to a rescue van where medics waited to patch up their injuries.

She was just slipping into the back seat of the cruiser when it occurred to her that she hadn’t gotten her hero’s name. She peered up at the serious young officer, and with a giggle that rose from hysteria, asked, “Who was that masked man?”

He frowned, staring at her oddly, then shut the door.

She sat back and surveyed her surroundings with combined interest and dread. “Oh, Lord, I’m riding in a cage!” she moaned. The next moment, the full significance of what was happening to her hit home, and two hot tears trickled down her cheeks.

After that, events really blurred. She was taken to the station and booked, only vaguely aware that the three men involved in the fight had been brought in, as well. Her possessions got handed over; she was escorted down a corridor to a cell; handcuffs came off, toilet facilities were pointed out, and then, with a sound that cut right through her, the iron-barred door clanged shut.

And so ended Mary Elizabeth Drummond’s first day of independence.

THE FIRST THING on Pete’s mind when he opened his eyes the next morning was his bike. Where the hell was it, and if it had even one scratch, how did the fool who’d scratched it want to die?

The second thing he thought about was Mary Elizabeth Drummond, that preppy little pain in the butt who was trying to wreck his vacation—and doing a pretty good job of it, too. He’d never met anyone so fly-brained in his life, and why he’d stuck his neck out for her was still a mystery.

Pete eased onto his back and scowled at the water-stained ceiling of his cell, recalling the previous night. If she just hadn’t walked into that bar, none of this would’ve happened. He was familiar with places like that, knew the type of guy who frequented them. For the most part, just your ordinary, law-abiding Joe. But add a woman to the equation—an unattached woman, he amended, thinking of the few who’d been there with their husbands or boyfriends—and your ordinary Joe suddenly transmuted into King Kong. She should have known that, too—although, to be fair, he doubted she’d spent much time in bars.