I stand right outside the door and in a few minutes, she comes out.
"Can you grab some bottled water, too?" she asks.
I stifle a groan. Sure, might as well play the lottery, grab some cigarettes, and maybe watch the ballgame before we drive again. The line's grown a bit, but I wait to buy water, and she wanders over to a rack with newspapers and magazines. I beckon her over, but she doesn't see me.
"Marissa." She doesn't hear me, and the line moves so I step closer to the register. I don't like that she's out of arm's reach now, and call her name again.
A young man ambles into the shop obviously plastered when I'm next in line. I watch him stumble over to her and say something to her. She fidgets nervously and darts her eyes to me, and I gesture for her to get the fuck over here, but the man says something to her and gets her attention again. Her jaw drops, and the cashier raises her voice to me.
"Excuse me. Sir? I said, 'Can I help you?'"
I turn angrily toward her. I'm gonna spank Marissa's little ass for not getting over here next to me.
"Two bottles of water, please," I order, when I hear a little gasp behind me. I turn to see the man's got his hand on her hair. The fucking bastard is touching her.
I push everyone out of my way and lunge at him, grab him by the shirt and yank him off her.
"Hey!" he screams. He wreaks of alcohol and body odor, stumbling when I let him go.
"Don't fucking touch her," I tell him. "Get away from her!"
"Nicolai, stop!" Marissa pleads. Shit, she used my name out loud. God.
I ignore her when he gets to his feet and gets in my face. "I just told her she had pretty hair," he protests, his face red with anger. "And you can't tell me—"
I sure as fuck can tell him. The bastard reaches for her again, and without thinking, I hit him so hard I hear bone snap. Blood spurts down his nose and he howls in pain. I lift him by the shirt and punch him again, and again, until he's writhing in pain and screaming for help. I don't even register anyone else around us until I feel Marissa grabbing my arm, pulling me off of him. I blink, realizing I just beat the shit out of a man at a tiny coffee shop, and cops could be here any second.
Fuck.
I grab her by the arm and haul her out with me.
"Get in the fucking car," I order, yanking the door to the car open and shoving her in.
That was a stupid fucking move, drawing attention to us like that. A few people have come out of the shop after us. I peel out into the street, leaving them all behind. Praying we didn't just get the attention of the police.
When we're on the highway hidden among streams of other cars, I exhale.
"You're dripping blood everywhere," she murmurs. I look down at my hands in surprise. I didn't even fucking realize his blood painted my knuckles on my right hand.
She reaches for the hand closest to her and wipes a napkin with the donut shop logo over it, her own hand shaking when the napkin turns red.
"Son of a bitch," I mutter. "You should've been next to me."
"How was I to know some drunk jerk would do that?"
"You weren't," I respond. "But you should've fucking been next to me."
I want to punish her for her stupidity.
"You didn't have to nearly kill the guy." But it seems there’s a note of pride in her voice.
I don't respond. I'm not in the mood for her lecture. We both know it was stupid for me to lose my shit like that, but I can't change that now.
We drive in silence for another hour. The food is gone, but she lied, it did nothing to help her mood at all. She's still sullen and irritable, tapping her foot and sighing. I ignore her.
The sun's now risen, letting loose the full heat of its rays. Richmond in May is gorgeous, the weather temperate, flowers blooming, the sky a vibrant, nearly-cloudless blue that looks as if it were painted. She lets out a sigh, and I cast a glance at her. Her eyes are wistful, her lip caught between her teeth. I want to know what's going on in that mind of hers. What troubles her. I want to listen to her, to every fear and hope and dream she holds onto. She's on the cusp of being an adult, and I—
Shit.
She isn't on the cusp of adulthood. I reach for the invoice from this morning and glance at the date.
It's her birthday.
I could smack myself for being such an idiot. I toss the invoice back on the dash, but don't say anything to her. I will have to make it up to her somehow. I don't let on that I know, but think about the ways I can tell her that I haven't completely forgotten.