The man glanced at a watch not on his wrist. “Seems to me it’s not quite two,” he said, his voice thick with alcohol. “I’m a paying customer. I shouldn’t have to wait to be served because you want to punch out early and fuck that pretty-boy.”
That pried my attention from Lizzie to the pile of lard passing for a human being. I pointed at myself with both thumbs, then shouted loud enough for the entire bar to hear. The tequila shots and the scotch at Xander’s place and the couple beers had really washed over me. “Wow!” I yelled, standing from the stool. “Enough is enough! I can sit back and listen to you insult this pretentious lounge. I can even tolerate you berating the bar staff. But when you drag this,” I circled my face, “into it, I can’t sit back any longer. This, my tire-shaped friend, is the money-maker.” It sounded better in my head, I promise. I pushed on. “Only two people can call me pretty—my momma and my barber. To anyone else, I’m as rugged as Clint Eastwood.” By the time I finished my rant, I had crossed the distance separating us and stood a foot away from the man.
He hopped off his stool and squared off with me. Though he was about six inches shorter than me, he weighed about a hundred pounds more. My posturing didn’t intimidate him in the least.
I sniffed, scrunching my nose. “Smells like a sweaty ball sack,” I said, cringing at my insult. I allowed myself a little grace since I was out of practice, but I mean, that was middle school stuff. I’d have to start working on my material. Chuckling to play it off, I glanced over my shoulder at Lizzie. “If I hurt him, will I have to leave?”
Rumbling in from behind, Xander wedged himself between me and the man. He shoved us both to arm’s length, then stared right at me, eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking? Are you drunk?”
“I—”
“Save it,” he said. He turned to the portly gentleman. “I apologize, sir.” Xander removed his hand from the man’s flabby chest, stuck it in his own front pocket, and produced a twenty-dollar bill. He set it on the bar, and then regarded Lizzie. “Get this man something to drink, please. As a paying customer, he shouldn’t have to wait, no matter the time.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “Night was just getting fun.”
“We’re leaving.” Xander shouldered me around, facing me toward the door. “Now.”
“Wait,” I said, breaking free from his grasp. “Lizzie, I need that credit card. Oh, and… could I get your number?”
Xander gripped my wrist and tugged on my arm. “Now,” he said again, glaring at me. That dude was like a broken record, repeating himself more times than a parrot.
Lizzie hesitated, glancing at the man who had earned a fresh twenty for his poor manners—way to teach that guy a lesson, Xander. Fucking entitlement. She turned and closed out Dakota’s tab and handed me her card, a receipt wrapped around the plastic. “Customer copy,” she said. “I went ahead and included gratuity to the bill.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, so that only I could hear. “And don’t worry about Mr. Balloon. I’m a big girl.” She bit her lip and sauntered over to the man to take his order.
“You ready now?” Xander asked.
I pulled my arms from his grasp. “You need to cool it with the whole overbearing dad vibe. I’ve managed to survive the past five years without your constant nagging. You would think I could last another night.”
We stepped out of the Snake Head Lounge and onto the sidewalk. The wind had picked up from earlier, and it swept through the street, carrying a brisk temperature.
“I saw you talk to three people,” Xander said after we had walked a few yards from the lounge. “That girl who left. The bartender. And that man you tried to fight. Oh, the bouncer. So, four people.” He looked at the smoggy sky. “You’re drunk, too. I don’t get it, man. Your daughter is missing. We have a lead, and you f—“ he paused, taking a deep breath. “You screw around the entire night. Is this why you couldn’t ever find Callie’s murderer?”
“Fuck you,” I said, a red splattering of paint covering my vision. “How about that?” I sat on the curb just outside the lounge and sighed.
“You’re just quitting? That’s it? You had a bad night, so now you’re done? Giving up?”
“I’m not asking you to hang out,” I said. “You can fucking go. I won’t miss you.”
Xander coughed, and then sat beside me. “You already know I’m not going to do that. Callie meant too much to me. Mel and you still mean too much to me. I don’t care how much you act like a child, how much you want to pout and deflect, I’m here for you.”
“Dude,” I said, “quit coming at me with that mushy stuff.” I actually appreciated his sensitivity and support, but in that moment, I wanted nothing more than for him to shut the hell up. So, I tried my best to make that happen. “I don’t remember you being this weird. Have you always been like this?”
“No,” he said. “I used to be like you—angry, frustrated, depressed.”
I gritted my teeth and bit my tongue. He would say what he wanted to say if I tried to stop him or not.
“Then I made my pact,” he continued. “Except, unlike you, I take my vows seriously. I serve my God, capital G, with purpose.”
Have I not gone over Xander’s pact yet? Shit, my bad.
Xander’s pact hadn’t imbued him with magic, like most pacts with the Nephil. He had all the typical superhero enhancement bullshit: speed, strength, stamina, health, blah, blah, and blah. Hephaestus, Ares, and Athena, the Nephil at our university, had all offered him a pact upon graduation. I don’t know of anyone else offered a pact by three
