Free High-Caliber Concealer by Bethany Maines Page B

Nikki could tell had been crying recently. In
Nikki’s opinion, she was far too pretty, too well-dressed, and too
young to be with either of the men. The two men seemed to be
arguing quietly, but the more they spoke, the further away the girl
leaned and the more she seemed to hunch in on herself, as if trying
to become invisible in her chair.
    The bartender returned with Nikki’s drink.
He set it down with the air of one doing his duty in the face of
adversity. “It’s going to be wedges after all,” he said. “Those
guys ordered the last of the curly fries.” He jerked his head at
the occupied table, with an expression that said he’d take the
fries back if he could.
    “Wedges are fine,” she said, with a
shrug.
    The bartender shrugged back, as if to say
that he couldn’t be bothered with people who didn’t understand the
important things in life.
    Her burger and wedges arrived a few moments
later and both were surprisingly tasty. Fattening as hell, but not
the greasy bomb of disgustingness that she was expecting. In fact,
the burger was downright good, bordering on awesome. Perhaps
cuisine was how the Kessel Run stayed in business. If that was the
case, they should double the cook’s salary.
    She was savoring the crisp snap of the
pickle on her fifth bite of burger when it happened. The hairs on
the back of her arms stood up as the discussion at the back table
rose in acrimony. The volume didn’t go up, just the intensity of
the whispering. Nikki shifted her eyes to the mirror and saw that
the body language on the girl had moved from hunched to
cowering.
    “It’s not my fault,” said the girl, her
voice wavering. She stood up to go, but Carhartt snaked out a hand
and grabbed her by the upper arm.
    “Let me go,” pleaded the girl, sounding on
the verge of tears. “It’s not my fault.” She tugged ineffectually
at his hand.
    Nikki took a deep breath and let it out
again slowly. She’d really been enjoying the burger. Reaching into
her purse, she dropped some cash on the bar.
    Back at the table, Carhartt forcefully
shoved the girl back into her chair and stood up, towering over
her.
    “I just want to go home,” said the girl,
tears sliding down her cheek.
    “You’ll go when I’m damn good and ready for
you to go,” snapped Carhartt.
    Nikki stood up, blotted her mouth with the
napkin, and turned to face the three at the table.
    “Gentlemen, I think you should let the girl
go.” She used a loud, calm voice, so there would be no mistaking
her intentions. The bartender, coming out of the kitchen, froze in
the doorway, his eyes flicking between the table and Nikki, his
expression akin to a deer in the proverbial headlights.
    “Nobody asked you what you think, bitch,”
said the man in the button-up. Carhartt blinked at her.
    “Let me rephrase that,” said Nikki. “You’re
going to let the girl go.”
    “Or what?” asked Carhartt smirking.
    “That wasn’t an either or statement,” said
Nikki. “That was a fact.”
    “It’s OK,” said the girl, looking panicked.
“It’s OK. I don’t want to start any trouble.” She licked her lips
and stood up. “Everything’s fine, really.”
    Carhartt released the girl’s arm and shoved
her back into her chair. “This is none of your business,” he said,
trying to loom over Nikki. “Go away.”
    “I’m making it my business,” said Nikki.
“Now I suggest you sit down while she and I leave.”
    “Ain’t going to happen,” he said. “Go away.”
And then he pushed her, a one-handed shove on the shoulder, meant
to send her toward the door.
    Instead, Nikki side-stepped, seized his arm,
pivoted and, with a quick twist of the hips, flipped him over her
back and onto the floor. He landed with a hard crack, but promptly
tried to sit up. She dropped her body weight through her knee onto
his head and then bounced back to her feet. His head made a double
clunk as it smacked into her knee and into the floor a split second
later. Button-up was