twisted into a glare.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she spat in my face before my smile had a chance to fade. “Haven’t you ruined enough lives?”
I was flummoxed by the allegation and quite honestly terrified. I’d never been in a bar brawl in my life, but I’d heard that fights could break out any minute in dive and dyke establishments, and I wasn’t interested in being thrown through a plate glass window or having a bar stool busted over my head. My one and only fistfight happened my sophomore year of high school when Melissa McMichael sent me across the room with a quick right hook that broke my jaw, which had to be stapled shut for six weeks, during which time I lost all that unsightly baby fat. Come to think of it, without that broken jaw I may never have gotten a prom date. Still, I had no interest in experiencing fisticuffs again.
“I think you’ve me mistaken for someone else,” I offered quietly. “I don’t know you.”
“You might not know me, Ashley, but I know you and you sure as fuck know my girlfriend, Kristy. You fucking tramp.”
Damn. This was the kind of thing that could take all the fun out of impersonating Ash. I’d take the adoration, but I refused to be tormented for doing someone I didn’t have the pleasure of doing. I hoped to calm the handsome stranger with rationality. “I’m sorry, I’m not Ashley. I’m her sister Megan—”
“Fuck you, you lying whore.”
She was spitting mad. Her language was almost as filthy as Ash’s. I was scared witless.
“You stole my girlfriend. Did you know that? She dumped me. We were going to get married next month until she just dumped me. She broke my heart. I couldn’t work, I lost my job. I lost my fucking dignity. All because of you. You ruined everything.”
“Look.” I held my hands up in front of me, palms facing her, as though she could read them and know I spoke the truth. “I’m not Ashley, I swear. Want to see my ID?”
In response, the woman cocked her arm back and started to take a swing. Everything decelerated. It was as though we were characters in a slow motion fight sequence. Everyone stopped dancing and talking and they were all staring at us, waiting for that fist to connect with my jaw. A dozen thoughts raced through my head. Duck. The first rule of fight club is: Don’t talk about fight club. Do lesbian bar fights have the same rules? I don’t want to drink from a straw again. If she breaks my nose, maybe the repair job will look better than the original. Who’s Kristy and why did she leave this woman for Ash when Ash would never offer anything as tangible as marriage? What would Ash do if she were here? Would she even care that I’m about to be pummeled in a bar brawl because of her? What will Father say if I get arrested?
Caught up in my own thoughts, I did nothing to prevent her fist from rearranging my face, when in a moment of uncharacteristic luck, her right hook was intercepted by a rather stunning but disheveled brunette, who repelled the fist, pushing it aside, while pulling me into an embrace. Even though we were in an impending bar brawl, being pinned against her taut body made mine prickle in places I didn’t know had nerve endings.
The rest of the night was something I promised myself I would record for posterity in my diary. I know that makes me sound like a giddy schoolgirl, but honestly, I felt like something wholly significant and amazing happened. Suddenly everything changed.
First, I was rescued from a certain beating by an enigmatic stranger and then Shane—that was my gallant rescuer’s name—set me on the back of her motorcycle and we drove off into the sunset. Seriously, it happened just like a hokey Harlequin romance, except the knight in shining armor was a dyke in shining leather, and her mighty steed was a tricked-out Harley. Also, I wasn’t much of a princess.
On the back of Shane’s bike, the engine reverberated through my crotch and vibrated throughout my
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she spat in my face before my smile had a chance to fade. “Haven’t you ruined enough lives?”
I was flummoxed by the allegation and quite honestly terrified. I’d never been in a bar brawl in my life, but I’d heard that fights could break out any minute in dive and dyke establishments, and I wasn’t interested in being thrown through a plate glass window or having a bar stool busted over my head. My one and only fistfight happened my sophomore year of high school when Melissa McMichael sent me across the room with a quick right hook that broke my jaw, which had to be stapled shut for six weeks, during which time I lost all that unsightly baby fat. Come to think of it, without that broken jaw I may never have gotten a prom date. Still, I had no interest in experiencing fisticuffs again.
“I think you’ve me mistaken for someone else,” I offered quietly. “I don’t know you.”
“You might not know me, Ashley, but I know you and you sure as fuck know my girlfriend, Kristy. You fucking tramp.”
Damn. This was the kind of thing that could take all the fun out of impersonating Ash. I’d take the adoration, but I refused to be tormented for doing someone I didn’t have the pleasure of doing. I hoped to calm the handsome stranger with rationality. “I’m sorry, I’m not Ashley. I’m her sister Megan—”
“Fuck you, you lying whore.”
She was spitting mad. Her language was almost as filthy as Ash’s. I was scared witless.
“You stole my girlfriend. Did you know that? She dumped me. We were going to get married next month until she just dumped me. She broke my heart. I couldn’t work, I lost my job. I lost my fucking dignity. All because of you. You ruined everything.”
“Look.” I held my hands up in front of me, palms facing her, as though she could read them and know I spoke the truth. “I’m not Ashley, I swear. Want to see my ID?”
In response, the woman cocked her arm back and started to take a swing. Everything decelerated. It was as though we were characters in a slow motion fight sequence. Everyone stopped dancing and talking and they were all staring at us, waiting for that fist to connect with my jaw. A dozen thoughts raced through my head. Duck. The first rule of fight club is: Don’t talk about fight club. Do lesbian bar fights have the same rules? I don’t want to drink from a straw again. If she breaks my nose, maybe the repair job will look better than the original. Who’s Kristy and why did she leave this woman for Ash when Ash would never offer anything as tangible as marriage? What would Ash do if she were here? Would she even care that I’m about to be pummeled in a bar brawl because of her? What will Father say if I get arrested?
Caught up in my own thoughts, I did nothing to prevent her fist from rearranging my face, when in a moment of uncharacteristic luck, her right hook was intercepted by a rather stunning but disheveled brunette, who repelled the fist, pushing it aside, while pulling me into an embrace. Even though we were in an impending bar brawl, being pinned against her taut body made mine prickle in places I didn’t know had nerve endings.
The rest of the night was something I promised myself I would record for posterity in my diary. I know that makes me sound like a giddy schoolgirl, but honestly, I felt like something wholly significant and amazing happened. Suddenly everything changed.
First, I was rescued from a certain beating by an enigmatic stranger and then Shane—that was my gallant rescuer’s name—set me on the back of her motorcycle and we drove off into the sunset. Seriously, it happened just like a hokey Harlequin romance, except the knight in shining armor was a dyke in shining leather, and her mighty steed was a tricked-out Harley. Also, I wasn’t much of a princess.
On the back of Shane’s bike, the engine reverberated through my crotch and vibrated throughout my
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