The Pickup

"Take me home." Her eyes were as dark as the pub we were in, and her voice was even smokier.

I contemplated the bottom of my sixth drink. Seventh. Sixth? It didn't matter.

"You'd be disappointed." I motioned to the barkeep, "One more." He rang it up on the computer.

"You wouldn't be." She drew in a breath, her crimson lips parted into a salacious grin.

"Hookers deserve satisfaction, too." That lit the fuse; time for fireworks.

"Why, I never..." her face flushed and her eyes sizzled with a homicidal rage.

"Oh, on the contrary, I'm sure you have. Quite a bit, I would guess." I know I was smirking. Her hand cocked back like the hammer of a gun, but a burly man pushed between us glaring down at me, bringing his face within a hair's breadth of mine.

"The lady deserves an apology, jackass." Have you ever noticed that the combination of tobacco and hard liquor stings your eyes almost to tears? I blinked repeatedly out of reflex.

I stood up, towering over him as he had towered over me when I was sitting. The look in his eye was gratifying; I wouldn't need to fight him.

"First, you'll need to define the word 'lady' as it certainly doesn't refer to her." Jerking my thumb at the painted trollop. "My ex-wife bought this one's services to gain leverage in our divorce."

He took a step back. "How do you know?"

"She isn't very imaginative." I took a pull of my drink. "She texted me to meet here. Two hours later, this one wants my body? I know I'm a handsome fella, but..." I'm not a handsome fella.

We glared after her as she skulked out of the bar.

"Russ." He extended his hand.

"Dempsey." I said shaking it.