And no one bothered to introduce her to any of them, not the men or the women.
They’d been talking for ten minutes and Steve hadn’t even troubled himself to offer her a drink.
“I’m sorry,” Sibyl interrupted quietly in an attempt to be polite. When she had Steve’s attention she tipped the edges of her lips up in a smile and, when she did this, Steve stared at her mouth like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “I was wondering about maybe getting a drink?” She tilted her head, trying to pull his attention from her mouth to her eyes.
He blinked, looking sadly confused, then smiled and said, “Yeah! Great, babe. You blokes want anything?” When all four of the other men lifted their empty glasses, Steve turned back to Sibyl. “That’ll be five pints of lager and, of course, whatever you want for yourself.”
He turned back to his friends and Sibyl stood stock-still, processing the fact that he just gave her his friend’s drink order and expected her to go and get it.
She studied him as if seeing him for the first time. He, too, was good-looking. He, too, was trendy. He, too, was well-dressed. And apparently, like his friends, he, too, thought he was the goddess’s gift to women.
She felt the overwhelming urge to demonstrate to him (without any room for doubt) that he was not when she realised that if she got them all drinks, she could be away from his crowd for at least a few minutes as well as have time to figure out how she was going to make the night end very early.
Therefore, Sibyl stalked to the bar.
But not before hearing Steve say in a loud whisper, “Isn’t she fit?”
She felt the urge to turn on her heel and run, except her shoes would not allow it.
As was usual (so usual, she didn’t notice it) upon her arrival at the bar, the bartender ignored the other people clamouring for a drink and jogged up to her.
“What’ll it be?”
“Five pints of lager, and a vodka lemonade with a splash of lime cordial, lots of ice and a cherry, if you have it,” she answered and smiled at him. The effect of her smile caused the bartender to nod eagerly at her strange drink order, deciding instantly that if they didn’t have cherries, he’d go to the nearest store and steal a jar if he had to.
“You’re pretty.” Sibyl heard this come from the man who was somehow managing to be unsteadily seated on the barstool next to her, looking as if he’d lived there at least a year.
“Thank you,” Sibyl said politely but then turned away.
She wasn’t normally rude to people but she also didn’t fancy striking up a conversation with an obviously highly inebriated man (she’d had enough troubles with men the last few days, thank you very much), especially considering her shoes would not allow her to affect a hasty retreat should she need to do so (and she vowed never to wear high heels again, or, at the very least, on a first date, something which she also doubted she’d do again).
The man swayed then righted himself before he slurred decisively, “I’ll buy you a drink.”
It was at this moment that Sibyl realised Steve hadn’t given her any money to buy all of his friends a drink, friends who she had known no longer then fifteen minutes and the fact of the matter she didn’t know them at all since she hadn’t been given their names. Nor had he (or Sibyl herself for that matter), asked any of the women if they wanted a beverage.
“Thank you but I don’t think so,” Sibyl answered the drunk, stopping herself from going back and asking the women, none of whom said a word to her except “Heya,” what drinks they wanted.
The drunk awkwardly stood, swayed again doing a full, unsteady loop with his upper body and carefully enunciated, “I said, I’ll buy you a drink.”
She turned toward him, saw his bloodshot eyes and then he breathed out. Even though he was still not very close, she smelled his drink-laced breath.
She tried not to wince but knew she was unsuccessful.
“I’m sorry but I’m fine. I don’t need you to buy me a drink,” she replied firmly.
Kind, polite, controlled and not unnecessarily ill-mannered, she was quite pleased with herself.
The bartender put her glass on the bar with a smile.
At its arrival, the drunk slammed the palm of his hand on the bar with such force that it made a loud smacking sound and she jumped. Several of the patrons close to her (and some not-so-close) turned around to look.
“I’m buyin’ that drink!” the drunk slurred loudly and lurched toward her, leaning into her face, his fetid breath hitting her like a slap.
Sibyl immediately became alarmed, her body tensed and she took a hurried step back to flee and slammed into a solid, hard wall.
“She’s with me.” A voice came from behind her. It was vaguely familiar, low, deep and absolutely lethal.
She glanced over her shoulder to see who her rescuer was and stared in disbelief (and not a small amount of shock) at Colin Morgan.
The drunk also turned to look and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man with the frightening look on his face standing so close behind the pretty girl that their bodies were touching.
“All right, mate, no need to get uptight.” The drunk put his hands up appeasingly and stumbled back to his stool. “Pretty girls shouldn’t buy their own drinks, thas all I’m sayin’,” he garbled.
“I agree,” Colin murmured distractedly as he watched five pints placed around Sibyl’s drink.
“That’ll be seventeen fifty,” the bartender said.
Sibyl fumbled in her purse for money, still recovering from the shock of seeing Colin Morgan.
She could not believe that her dream madman was standing so close to her she could feel his body against her back. She could also not believe he’d witnessed her being semi-accosted by a drunk man and felt the need to come to her rescue. She never expected, never dreamed she’d run into him in a club in Bristol. In fact, she had hoped never to see him again for the rest of her natural life and even throughout her unnatural one (if such a thing existed).
She made the immediate decision to spend the rest of her days with old people, Jemma’s family or in her Summer House Girlie Stuff Laboratory and never go out socialising again.
Ever.
Then Colin leaned in and Sibyl felt his hard chest pressing into her shoulder blade and watched as he passed a twenty pound note to the bartender.
At this gesture, she tried to remain cool and collected, though, she had to admit, it was difficult.
“Mr. Morgan, please don’t pay for the drinks. They’re –”