?Got to be twenty-one to sit at the bar.?
Lizzy showed her the fake license, and the woman brought her a Diet Coke. Lizzy finished the cigarette and immediately lit another. Anger still bubbled in her veins.
She heard the dudes snickering, caught a glimpse of them in the mirror behind the bar. One elbowed his buddy in the ribs, pointed at her. She spun on her stool, blew out a cloud of smoke, and said, ?Got a problem, guys??
The one in the cowboy boots looked at the one in the sneakers before answering. ?No problem. It?s cool.?
?Right.? She turned back around, leaned on the bar.
She smoked, stared at herself in the mirror, remembered how Dr. Bryant had tried to explain to her that her appearance was a defense mechanism. If people rejected her because of her wild looks, her crazy hair, all the piercings, then she could dismiss their rejection as shallow narrow-mindedness. She didn?t have to consider that maybe it was really her, the deep-down Lizzy, that people couldn?t accept. Maybe. But Lizzy wasn?t feeling very open to Dr. Bryant?s theories at the moment. Mostly, she felt like she wanted to lash out in righteous anger.
In other words, she wanted to fuck somebody up, and it was okay because the motherfuckers had it coming. It would be some measure of justice, at least to her way of thinking.
One of the guys leaned at the bar next to her. Cowboy boots. He waved the fat woman over. ?How about a Coors, Bess??
?Sure.? She popped the top off a longneck and set it in front of the cowboy.
?I?m Brandon,? he said.
?Good for you.? Lizzy sucked on the cigarette, held it, exhaled a long gray stream.
?How about I buy you a beer??
?How about you fuck off??
Brandon laughed. Half-bravado, half-nervous. ?I?m just trying to be friendly. I think you got the wrong impression before. Me and Duane are good guys.?
She turned her head slowly, met his eyes, and blew smoke straight into his face.
Duane laughed from the other side of the pool table. ?I told you she was a bitch.?
?Goddamn,? Brandon said. ?I was just trying to make nice. Should have known better. Fucking pink-haired weirdo.?
Lizzy snatched the Coors bottle out of his hand and smashed it across his teeth. Brandon?s face erupted in beer, blood, and broken glass. He stumbled back. The fat woman behind the bar screamed. Lizzy hopped off her barstool, kneed Brandon in the balls. He groaned and went down, holding his bloody mouth.
?Shit!? Duane grabbed his pool cue and ran at her.
He swung, and she ducked, dropped to the floor, and swept his legs out from under him. Duane landed hard on his back. Lizzy sprang back to her feet.
The fat woman behind the bar was in motion. She grabbed a jar of pickled pigs feet and hurled it at Lizzy. Lizzy leapt aside. The jar landed on Brandon?s gut, the air wheezing out of him.
Duane got to one knee, and Lizzy balled her little fist tight and punched him in the nose. His head flew back. Lizzy heard and felt cartilage snap. Blood gushed over Duane?s lips.
Lizzy grabbed him by the shirt with one hand, punched with the other, three rapid-fire shots in the face. She let him go, and he fell to the floor, curled in a fetal position, holding his nose and sobbing quietly.
The fat woman was still screaming. Lizzy grabbed her cigarette, puffed, hands shaking.
?You?d better get out of here!? The fat woman grabbed the telephone behind the bar. Hysterical. ?I?m calling the police. I?m dialing them right now!?
Lizzy kicked Duane once more, then ran for the door. There weren?t any windows at the front of the bar, so she figured if she sped away quickly, they might not be able to identify the car or get a tag number. She cranked the Mustang and floored it, flying west down the two-lane county road.
