“Well, Joe, I said it before, and I’ll say it again.” Nick’s smile grew cold, and he stared them down, without an ounce of fear in his spiteful glare. “The Yankees could beat the Mets any fucking day of the—”
Before he could finish, a heavy-fisted punch caught him right in the face. My hands clapped over my mouth to silence a scream, but Nick simply spat out a mouthful of blood and lifted his head in triumph.
“Yankees!” he had the audacity to yell.
The ridiculous bloodbath came to a momentary standstill as his battle cry was echoed by dozens of others scattered around the bar. “Yankees! Yankees! Go, Yanks!” they wailed in a horribly off-key chorus as they pulled themselves away from their oppressors.
Just like that, the fighting resumed tenfold, and the baster-bearing bastard gave his head a dangerous shake. “I warned you, dude.”
“What are you gonna do?” Nick taunted, eyeing his pathetic arsenal. “Marinate me?”
Sports? All this over a stupid game? I thought, still frozen in disbelief, staring with eyes as wide as saucers as the men of New York digressed into petulant children before my very eyes. Are they ever anything but a bunch of little boys obsessed with their dribbling balls?
“I’ll marinate you all right. I could kill you with this thing if I wanted.”
“Good. I’d rather die than spend another second talking to a Mets fan. I hope your delusion isn’t contagious,” Nick said, surprising me that he could speak words of so many syllables in his sloshed state.
The men stared each other down as the baster lifted high into the air. Before the culinary threat could fall upon Nick, though, there was a flash of electricity, and the man holding it fell to the ground with a yelp of pain. Everyone watched him crumble and writhe for a moment before lifting their bloodshot eyes to find me standing over his body with a smoking Taser in my hand.
“Enough!” I demanded. Never underestimate a woman, let alone a pregnant one trained in the deadly art of public relations.
Nick continued staring at me, just as stunned as the others. “Abby?” he questioned, as if he suddenly remembered I was there with him.
“Are you idiots telling me this glorified little food fight of yours, one that’s going to get you all arrested, is because of a stupid basketball team?”
Nick closed his eyes in a painful grimace as the other men paused to stare at me. “It’s baseball, Abby, so—”
“I don’t give a fuck what it is!” Then, with razor-sharp precision, I kicked the man on the ground out of my way and waved the Taser threateningly toward the others.
They took a giant step back, releasing Nick in the process.
“Go home!” I ordered, my eyes narrowing threateningly as they scampered back like little school boys, staring at the actual weapon in my hand. “Go home to your unfortunate girlfriends and wives...and please give them my supreme sympathy.”
“That’s right—” Nick began smugly.
“Shut up,” I interrupted, shooting him a scathing glare as I motioned to the bathroom. “You’re just as bad as they are, if not worse. Don’t think for one second that you’re off the hook, mister. You’re just damn lucky I was here to save your drunk ass...again.”
His lips parted to respond, but he wisely thought better of it. Instead, he gave his enemies a friendly wave, and the two of us disappeared down the hall.
The second we were out of sight and earshot, he turned to look at me in amazement. “Abby, you were incredible back there! Where the hell did you learn to do that?”
I shot him another glare before kicking open the bathroom door and shepherding him through. The second we were both inside, I locked it firmly behind us and propped a trashcan beneath the handle for good measure.
“Where did I learn what? To scare off a gang of violent fools intent on killing you over the damn Yankees?” I asked under my breath, scanning the little room. “I was your publicist for two years, Nick. That was hardly the worst thing I’ve had to do.”
A-ha! There you are!
Through the shadows and grime, I finally made out what I was looking for: a tiny window mounted high up in the wall. As Nick swayed drunkenly beside me, I estimated the distance the best I could, then crawled up onto the sink to strike the ancient glass repeatedly with my purse. Not a moment too soon, it reluctantly swung open; I could already hear the distant sound of police sirens racing toward us.
“Come on!” I called, jumping down to let him go first. “We’ve got to get out of here before those Mets fans make mettwurst out of you, though at this point, I’m thinking maybe I should let them.”
He glanced between me and the window, his eyes wide with astonishment, then hopped up onto the sink with a surge of adrenaline. “You’re one helluva woman, Abigail Wilder.”
“Just go,” I answered as the sirens neared, “and try not to break anything on the way down.”
He gave me a drunken salute, then dropped noiselessly into the air. The second I heard him land, I jumped up and squinted out into the night.
Rain? Perfect. Just fucking perfect.