Slow Burn(11)

    “He’s seriously so cute,” said another.

    I sighed. “He’s Griffin. My dad hired me a bodyguard.” The lie seemed to work as well as anything else.

    “You lucky slut,” said the first of my art class friends.

    “Oh yeah, he can guard my body any day.”

    They all giggled. I seethed. He was everywhere, all the time. It was annoying.

* * *

    By the end of the week, I’d had enough. He’d followed me to every class, chased off any of my friends who happened to come by the apartment, and insisted on going everywhere I went. I mentioned off hand that there was a band at The Purple Fiddle that night and that I wanted to go.

    “What’s The Purple Fiddle?”

    “It’s a restaurant. They serve beer and stuff. And sometimes they have bands,” I said. It was the most charming little pub I’d ever been to in my entire life. It was the best thing about Thomas, in my opinion.

    “So, it’s a bar.”

    “Kind of,” I said. They didn’t actually have a bar. They sort of had a counter.

    “Bad idea.”

    “Not a bad idea. A good idea. I need a night out to relax.”

    “There will be too many people. I’ll lose track of you. I won’t be able to see if someone tries to hurt you. The crowd will work against me. You’ll be drunk, and you won’t be thinking properly. Overall, just a really bad idea.”

    “Great,” I said. “And how long am I going to be banned from bars?”

    “Until you’re safe.”

    “I might never be safe.”

    He took a deep breath. “Listen, doll, what’s more important? Having a few beers or staying alive?”

    I glared at him. “I hate you.”

    He shrugged.

    But he took a shower later, and I left without him.

    The Purple Fiddle was eclectic and warm and kooky. The chairs and tables inside were mismatched. There were different kinds of salt and pepper shakers on each of them. On one table, the shakers were shaped like little teapots. On another, they were black and white cats. On yet another table, they were two peas in a pea pod. They were really adorable. When I walked in, I could see a row of shelves to my right, with everything from old instruments to antique typewriters sitting in them. Behind the counter, the beer specials were written in flowing chalky handwriting on a chalk board. The guy working had a scraggly beard and a paisley shirt.

    I grinned. Being here always made me feel happy.

    The Purple Fiddle wasn’t a place to get fall-down drunk. They prided themselves on their family-friendly atmosphere. Generally, for a crazy Friday night, this was a good starting point. I’d get a few beers, chat with friends, maybe do a few lines together in someone’s car or in the stalls of one of the bathrooms (which were closed in with old screen doors with colorful fabric draped over them so that no one could see through them). Sometimes, we’d go up to the brewery, but they usually closed around midnight, which meant leaving when the Fiddle was still kicking. Once in a while, I went to a bar in Davis, which was a five-minute drive away.

    But usually, if I wanted to get crazy, I went to someone’s house afterwards.

    Someone would throw an impromptu party after the Fiddle. I’d done it myself.

    Even though the college I went to was only fifteen miles from Thomas, very few of the people who went there hung out in town. Lots of them lived on campus. They didn’t seem to want to leave.

    I didn’t get it. I’d lived in a dorm in Boston. It had sucked.

    Even as a freshman, before I could get into bars, I’d spent most of my time not on campus. It was way cooler to hang out in an actual town.

    Of course, I wasn’t sure Thomas quite qualified. It was very, very small. A far cry from Boston. Still, I liked it here. There was something warm about the town, something inviting. I felt like I belonged.

    There was a small group of people in town who didn’t live on campus and went to school and a group of people who’d never seemed to make it out of Thomas after either graduating from the college or from dropping out. Those were the people I hung out with.

    I got a beer at the counter, and I spied Clint dancing to the band. They were some bluegrass band that I hadn’t seen before. Sometimes, there was some repeat action with bands at The Fiddle. But not these guys.