fl annel collar. The kind of guy that was hair all over, but losing it on his head where his ego needed it most. He had pale, almost pasty skin. His nose bent slightly to one side, pink from drink. Jet -black eyes squinted from the afternoon's booze, dark bags puffed under. She couldn't place his age. He could be thirty -fi ve or forty-five. Whatever he was drinking, he was drinking it neat in a big glass, had obviously had plenty, and was planning to stay and have plenty more.
"Who are you?" Vivian tossed off her second whiskey.
"I'm Joe." He introduced himself to her chest and held out a huge hand, which she ignored.
"Well, Joe." She thudded her glass onto the scarred bar. "I'm Vivian, and those tits you're staring at belong to me."
Joe flushed, then tried to recover with a leer while the men of Harris's Tavern laughed raucously.
She pointed to her glass and sent a pleading glance to Mike. He held it up to the bartender, who came grudgingly over with the bottle and poured.
"She's too much woman for you, Joe." One of the men whistled and laughed. "You better go home to Erin."
"They haven't made a woman yet that's too much for me."
"Oh, I think this one is."
Vivian downed her third whiskey, waiting for the familiar glow to allow the pain and mania to leak away. Men were such children.
"You better not take a bath around her."
Laughter, guffaws. Vivian's stomach roiled; her warm glow iced over. Ed in the tub, skin pruned, eyes staring. Sober, she could keep the picture at bay. Stinking drunk worked, too. In between, she was easy pickings.
Big mistake coming out tonight. At her best she could take on the entire bar, have them running for the exit, tails between their legs, and enjoy the hell out of it. But she wasn't remotely at her best. She needed Ed to have told her not to come. Why hadn't he been there to tell her?
This was his fault, the prick. How many times had she told him it was stupid to bathe with his CD player close to the edge? What kind of idiot thought he was immune to that danger? He'd called her a worrywart, and when she'd tried to unplug the player and take it away, he slapped her. So she stopped bringing it up. Fine. Let him fry, it would serve him right.
She just never dreamed he actually would.
"So . . . you ever get lonely in that big house there, Vivian?" Joe posed the question to her cleavage. His words slurred, his glass was empty. He reached behind Mike and poked her in the shoulder.
"Back off, Joe." Mike turned to him. "Just back off."
"Oh, like she's not asking for it. Women like that need only one thing."
"Oh pleez." Vivian rolled her eyes. "What bad movie did you get cut from?"
Mike slid off his stool, threw bills on the bar, and grabbed his jacket. "Come on, Vivian. I'll follow you home."
"No, no. Let her stay." Joe's voice lowered to a deep—and
in any other man, seductive—murmur. On him, it was just creepy multiplied. "Her and her tits are welcome anytime."
"You'd like a glimpse of those, eh, Joe?" This from anonymous jerk number four.
"Let's go." Mike was already at the door.
"Damn right I would."
"We all would." The men guffawed, leering adolescents.
That was it. Vivian sauntered after Mike. At the door, she turned, dipped her hands into her bra, and brought out two handfuls of naked breast. "You want to see? Here they are."
Silence dropped over the bar as if someone had pressed a mute button. The men glanced, then looked away, even Joe.
"Jesus." Mike dropped his jacket over her front.
Vivian burst out laughing. Jackasses. Spouting all that macho testosterone, then whimpering at the real thing.
"Come on." Mike grabbed her arm and pulled her after him out of the bar and onto nearly deserted Main Street. She followed, unresisting, still laughing.
"That was priceless. Ha!" She shouted the syllable, tucking her breasts back into her top, absurdly
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