As a publicly out mutant on the internet, Rebecca’s fans often suggested pro-mutant places she might want to check out, and one New York nightclub came up often. Chrysalis was not Rebecca’s normal speed, since she was not a regular participant of the big city nightlife, but this would be a rare night where the Vlogger wanted to spend her night somewhere the music would be loud enough to drown out her thoughts.

It was a weekend, so the crowd was active and diverse, with a dance floor saturated by bodies. Rebecca had no interest in dancing or socializing, (even if other patrons had other intentions.) The redhead wore minimal makeup and a strapless green cocktail dress, and her bottom had been glued to a barstool for over two hours.

She had a productive two hours.

Rebecca Grey was not the woman to generally get “drunk,” but tonight she had ascended past that level. She came to the bar to drink, and she did so with uncharacteristic recklessness. Long Island, Manhattan, Martini, SoCo Amaretto Lime, Whiskey Sour. Sober morning Rebecca would regret checking her bank account, but drunk night Rebecca only wanted to drink her latest cocktail, (a Cosmopolitan,) and stare at her phone.

It would be so easy to get something off her chest. She could type out the words (probably) and hit send and put the ball back in Agnes’s court. After she departed Rebecca’s apartment with a cruel shot at how the Writer left, the temptation to get her own side of the story in was strong.

Drunk texting was a bad idea, but who would stop her?

Certainly not the young man who appeared out of nowhere, (possibly literally,) to lean against the bar beside her. “Hey baby,” the man with small spikes lining his cheekbone greeted. “What are you doing here alone?”

”Skitin,” she replied, not caring that the slang for drinking would go completely unrecognized in the heart of New York. ”Ur ye blin?”

The man understood the last comment, his expression turning sour. “What, gonna be a rude bitch because I’m not some pretty mutant?”

Rolling her eyes, the inebriated woman responded matter-of-factly, ”Nae, m’a rude bitch coz ye seem locha sleazy asshat.” She took a sip of her drink nonchalantly.

The man, with a few drinks under his own belt, was growing impatient. He reached out and grabbed the drink out of Rebecca’s hand, slamming it down on the bar hard enough that she was surprised the glass did not shatter. “What’s your goddamn problem?”

Feeling threatened was not the best new stimuli for Rebecca, who came to the bar frustrated and defensive. She left her gun at the apartment since she knew she would be drinking, but that meant little when she could sense all the metal in their immediate vicinity. The stools near her at the bar started trembling as she glared at her unwelcome guest. ”Ye, if yoo’re nae smart, ye fuckin weapon…”

Working at a nightclub that drew in a large mutant crowd had given Honey the gift of sensing trouble before it broke-out. She had no premonitions or psychic abilities, only the experience of a barkeep. Right now a terse conversation between a young man and woman was roiling up from the far end of the bar, both apparently sloshed. The man was looking for something that the woman wasn't going to readily give. He snatched the young woman's drink, and Honey closed-in. Besides just an invasion of personal space, she didn't want the man to spike the young woman's beverage.

"Need any refills over here?" she asked sweetly, descending the two like a vision carried upon a cloud of lavender (tonight's augmented scent). The faintest bit of a drawl lingered in the inquiry.

"We're a little busy," the guy said curtly. Honey thinned her lips-- he certainly wouldn't be the top of her priority list when he did want a refill. Honey turned her attention to Rebecca, dawning a smile once again, "What about you, sugar?"

Regardless of Rebecca's answer, Honey would flit away towards the ingredients and, conveniently, their walkie. Her back to the two patrons, she quickly sent out a page-- "Honey here. I have a heated conversation between a man and a redheaded woman at my bar. Could I get some heat over here?"

Heat, as in back-up. As in someone to break things up if it went south. Jack, who was just getting off of her break, answered Honey's page.

<<Dis Jack, gi' nee a nin-ute. I'll get dere.>>

The prawn stepped back into the public part of the venue, enfolded by the heavily pulsing music. She expertly wove her way around patrons, towards the stairs that led to Honey's second-floor bar. Honey, all the while, replaced the walkie-talkie and resumed making drinks.

Rebecca’s buzzing anger was interrupted by a cloud of lavender floating into her vicinity. A pretty woman with a southern drawl asked if she was taken care of, but before Rebecca could reply, the man with his hand on her drink cut in to dismiss her. Even if he had not already come across as a total sleazeball, he would have blown his chance with her with his rudeness toward a server who was just trying to take care of them.

After his curt dismissal, she asked Rebecca, and she had to consider her situation. She was past drunk. Trashed territory. Hammered, sloshed, and all the other synonyms she herself could not articulate in her current condition. Just like with blurred vision, she had to focus harder on the objects around her within the magnetic field to gain some control of them. As her frustration was building, the objects around her were trembling, but nothing more was happening since she was too unfocused to affect any one thing greatly.

She was a strong fighter thanks to the training she received from Emerald, but her skills were rusty, and she had never put them to the test in a drunken brawl. There was also no telling what the jerk’s mutation was; it could have just been the spikes lining his cheeks, or those could have been a small secondary mutation hiding an underlying power she would not be ready to handle.

Of course, Rebecca was not in the condition to give enough careful thought and consideration. ”Ah shoods be braw. Wee lads jist nee’tae learn respect, s’all,” she replied, her slurring adding to the already difficult to comprehend nature of her accent.

The bartender stepped away just out of their earshot, and Rebecca turned her attention to the man she angered with her last comment. “You’re one to be talking about respect, with your wiseass mouth.”

Rebecca, at her peak of inebriated maturity, chuckled to herself and quietly muttered, ”Ass mouth.”

The man was less amused, now taking Rebecca’s wrist in his grasp and twisting it toward him. The alcohol in her system numbed much of the pain, but that made the experience no more pleasant. Instinctively, Rebecca’s focus narrowed on the metal legs of the stool beneath him, pulling them away from the bar in a sudden, jerking motion, leaving the jerk occupying the seat to fall to the floor hard with a thud that was drowned out by the music of the club.

While Rebecca was rubbing her wrist, her abuser was trying to get to his feet, shouting a stream of insults and expletives. Evidently, he was able to put two and two together to assume she played some role in what happened. Rebecca braced herself, trying not to wobble in place, wondering if she was going to have to put her combat training to the test with a bar fight. Still feeling the drinks sloshing around in her stomach, she prayed she could avoid a punch to the guy; she was not enough of a spectacle without emptying the contents of her stomach across the bar.

Jack ascended the stairs to the second-floor lounge, pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs. Honey locked eyes with her as soon as Jack reached the top of the staircase, and the bartender nodded pointedly towards the nearest side of the bar. Jack followed Honey's gesture, immediately spying the young redhead and man in-question. She arrived just in-time to see the man grab the redhead's wrist. Instinctively, the prawn was already moving towards them, parting the crowd in a way only possible by someone of her stature. She was a few yards away from them when the chair shot out from beneath the man on its own volition, and he crumpled to the floor.

Jack caught the chair in an unsuspecting primary hand, replacing it gently on the floor. The young woman cradled her wrist, all the while the man was raucously getting to his feet, very obviously embarrassed by going *ss over kettle, likely by the young woman's design.

"'scuse nee, sir," Jack boomed, "'scuse n-" A closed fist drawing back to strike the woman. Jack was quicker. Her hand enveloped his forearm. She hauled him back.

"I don't t'ink so."

The mans' limbs pinwheeled as he was hauled back and, somewhere amidst the flailing, he managed to get a hold of a beer bottle. Jack was in the process of trying to put the man into an wristlock the patron smashed the beer bottle on the inside of her arm, conveniently catching the gap between carapace plates inside of her elbow.

A hiss of pain escaped the prawn, and she lost her hold on him.

"Get your ****ing claws off of me!" the guy yelled.

"Sir, I'n gonna has to ask you to lea-ze iss you can't control your-sells," Jack said tersely. Honey stood just behind them, a bar between her and the action. Jack nodded to her, and Honey nodded in response, hurrying back towards her radio. She'd call for back-up, and hopefully the back-up could help decompress the growing situation.

When someone felt cornered, they could react in a number of ways-- these were most commonly knows as fight, flight, freeze, or fold. Jack typically dealt with ousted patrons in the "freeze" and "fold" stages-- she would escort patrons out (sometimes physically, and other times just casually) after someone had talked them down. An uppity patron who "flew" would have already escorted themselves out. "Fighters" however were someone else's job. It wasn't that Jack was incapable of handling them-- it was that she was a liability. She was too good at incapacitating the patrons. Broken bones didn't look good for business. But having an exotic-looking mutant doorman (*cough* door-woman) was very good for business. As such, Jack did very little of the scuffling, unless it involved someone of higher-than-average strength or durability. This guy seemed to be very cagey, very breakable, human man.

A cool dribble of blood was leaking from the fresh cut on the inside of her arm, and it stung against the air. It'd ****ing figure that he'd find one of the very few gaps in her carapace. Of all the rotten luck.

As her antagonist got to his feet and was clearly preparing to get aggressive with her, Rebecca felt her body flinching, trying to anticipate what the man’s next move would be. She could feel herself doubting her reaction time, which made it clear she was not a fan of drunken bar fights. The whole reason she could hold her own with someone bigger and stronger was because she was quick. Maybe drinking when her mood was sour was a mistake.

She saw the man’s arm pull back, but her body felt slow in responding. Rebecca was taking a step back, but she was sure she was too late to properly protect herself. Luckily, a massive, shelled arm intervened and grabbed the man’s forearm. It was hard not to be in awe of the guard coming to her aid, standing far taller than anyone else in the club, with a colorful, armored body.

Before Rebecca could make a snarky comment toward the man’s situation, he had pivoted and struck her savior, evidently on a weak spot based on the visceral reaction. ”Oy, rude git!”

There was a call out for backup, but Rebecca did not hear it; she was too annoyed to be aware of anything but the man she was ready to take her frustration out on. Focusing closely on him, she was able to notice something she missed initially due to her condition: the presence of his steel-toed boots.

Hoping the shoes were tied securely to the ruffian’s feet, Rebecca focused her magnetic control on the small blocks of metal and yanked upward. Before he could understand what was happening, the man yelped and found himself hanging upside-down by his shoes, suspended in midair.

The man was swinging his arms wildly and trying to wriggle himself free of his shoes, but if Rebecca kept her distance, she should be safe. Still, not content with what she had done so far, she shouted, That's wa bein' an arse tae braw girls an' security fowk is wrang!” Pulling her hand back she moved in with a quick punch to the guy’s stomach. It was unnecessary of her, but she was offended by his crass behavior, and she had misplaced aggression, making him the perfect candidate.

Jack took a moment to remove her hand from the gash, to roll her sleeve further up her arm and out of the way of the pooling blood. Last thing she needed was to stain a work-shirt. Heaven knew how to get bloodstains out of a dress shirt. Lavender gaze cut between the young woman and the bottle-wielding man. He started to move, Jack was ready to react, but his motions were... counter... to anything natural or expected.

It was as if an unseen giant grabbed him around the legs and flipped him over, so that his head was pointing ground-wards and his feet were oriented skyward. Jack pressed her hand back against the crook of her arm, surveying the upside-down brawler. The change of perspective chased any degree of fight right out of him. With a yelp he was inverted, he dropped the broken bottle which spun uselessly on the floor.

The man wiggled about, grabbing for his feet amidst incoherent sounds of distress.

>> "That's wa bein' an arse tae braw girls an' security fowk is wrang!”

Unphased, the redhead chastised him. It had to be her doing. And, as if to add insult to injury, she sucker-punched the defeated brawler in the stomach. Jack heard the wind go out of the guy and he bent over, pressing his arms to his diaphragm.

"I's just looking for some fun," he whined, murmuring a few explitives towards the "spiteful woman" and a particular "foolish equine" security guard.

Jack lightly tapped the young woman's shoulder (with the hand of the injured arm, the one that was not bloody... because that would be gross), as if to stay her from punching the man again. Her massive hand did not linger long, however (because that'd be skeevy) and in quiet, rumbling tones, she asked, "Do ya sink ya can hold 'n dere sore a see-ew? Udders on duh way to hel'."

Jack looked stonily at the floor. The blood was dripping. They'd have to close the second-floor bar to decontaminate the floor, since bodily fluids were spilled. She'd have to at least get a first aid kit, or go to the doctor's. And report to worker's comp. The prawn swore quietly, and spied the familiar forms of a few of her bouncer buddies trailing up the stairs. What a hassle.

Gabber, a particularly annoying fellow with the ability to augment his voice, hooted with amusement as he closed-in, surveying the upside-down man. His night was going to be decidedly worse than Jack's, since he decided to assault a bouncer with a broken bottle.

"What have we here~?" Gabber sang.

Jack huffed, "A draw-nuh keen. Can 'e take hin to duh drunk tank?"

"Nowhere else for him to go~"

With relief, Jack denoted the second attendee, a telekinetic who was affectionately nicknamed Geist... yes, as in Poltergeist. He was a mild-mannered fellow with grey eyes and platinum-blond hair who honestly didn't look like he should work security. Like Jack, he was used to escort people out when they got too unruly.

"I'd be happy to take it from here," he said to the redhead, with a soft smile. Jack, all the while, took the opportunity to walk towards the bar and grab some industrial-grade paper towels from Honey, who was passing a wad of the blue sheets of towels towards Jack.

"Iss it's not too nuch trou'le," Jack said to the young redhead, her tone still low, "Dey likely to call NYTD and dey'll 'rolly want to hear what ha'ened s-run you. 'ould it 'e too nuch trou'le to stick around?"

Some mutants were cagey about cops, such as Jack.

"Could get you nore to drink sore duh trou'le... alcohol... 'ater... sun-ting to eat?"

Rebecca felt guilty admitting it, but she was having a hard time of understanding the securityperson, (whose gender she would be careful not to assume until further evidence was gathered,) partially thanks to her inebriation, but mainly due to the way they spoke. As someone with a heavy accent, Rebecca always made an effort to listen closely to those she struggled to understand, being polite when asking for clarification.

This time, however, she was in no condition to ask probing questions, so instead, Rebecca nodded meekly. She gathered that the guard might want her to keep her harasser at bay until udders?—Oh, others arrived. The request sounded doable, even though her focus was questionable, making her magnetic grip on his toes noticeably shaky. She was doing her best.

Until suddenly, the phone she left on the bar next to her buzzed. Knowing the message might be coming from Agnes, looking to talk about what happened that night, much of Rebecca’s focus went to grabbing the device and checking her text notifications. She was not so unaware she dropped the rude, swearing, upside-down man, but he did slowly drop a few inches as she diverted her attention, until his shaved head was pressing against the floor of the club.

Rebecca could not be bothered to care. She was disappointed. Her friend Nessa was checking on her, knowing she was upset and at the bar. It was very nice of her, but it was not a message from Agnes. She had her phone available for that purpose, so anything else could be put off until the morning, including well-meaning friends.

The drunk young woman’s attention snapped back to reality when a new guard appeared, smiling and offering to take her burden for the evening away from her. ”Gladly,” she replied, instinctively releasing the man. Thankfully, the guard had the reflexes to catch him before he crumpled on the ground, evidently with some kind of telekinetic power. Or maybe it was more specialized; maybe he had the ability to control garbage, which the man clearly was.

The first guard, the one who originally saved her, asked if she would mind sticking around to talk to the cops. Honestly, Rebecca had no issues with the police, but she did wonder how much help she would be to them, or anyone really. ”Ah mean, Ah guess. Ah dornt want tae press charges ur naethin',” she admitted with a heavy slur impacting her diction. ”Ah jist wanted th' dooche canoe tae gettae away frae me.” To that end, she had been surprisingly successful.

Likely as an incentive to stick around, Rebecca was offered a drink or something to eat. She should have been taking the altercation as a sign to call it a night, but the sound of free treats was tempting. Slipping back into her seat, she cheerily replied, ”If yoo're offerin'... a daiquiri soonds guid.” There was a brief pause, since she was struggling to think and speak at the same time, followed by an enthusiastic exclamation. ”OOH! Ur mozzarella sticks. Diz thes place hae mozzarella sticks?”

>> ”Ah mean, Ah guess. Ah dornt want tae press charges ur naethin', Ah jist wanted th' dooche canoe tae gettae away frae me.”

"Just get hin to duh drunk tank," Jack said coolly to Geist, at the woman's reassurance that she didn't want to press charges. The young redhead wouldn't need to stick around, if she wasn't pressing charges, but that didn't mean that Jack didn't want the cops talking to the inebriated man. After all, he assaulted an employee, "Duh cots can get hin dere."

"Sounds like a plan," Geist said, meandering away with a floating drunkard in-tow. Gabber had left, for a moment, but returned with some paper towels, which he handed to the prawn-- to stop the bleeding, she assumed-- a "Wet Floor" sign, and some cleaning chemicals.

"Someone should be up with first-aid kit shortly," Gabber assured the prawn lightly. Jack shrugged a shoulder, tearing a wad of industrial-strength paper towels free and pressing it to the inside of her arm. The redhead eagerly took a seat at the bar, keen on the offer that Jack had extended, so the prawn followed her over.

>> ”If yoo're offerin'... a daiquiri soonds guid. OOH! Ur mozzarella sticks. Diz thes place hae mozzarella sticks?”

"Honey," Jack said politely to the bartender, "Iss you 'ould, a daiquiri sore our dear s'riend? And could 'e call down sore nozzarella sticks? I'll gizz you none-ey aster closing."

She wanted to open a tab, in other words. The prawn didn't keep her wallet on her during business hours. Just her phone, and that was only for communicative purposes. Honey nodded, with a cheerful "No problem, Chief!" before going about making drinks.

The prawn let the din of the club settle around her. Things were slowly trickling back into motion in the upstairs area, now that the brawler had been removed. A more suave individual might start a conversation with the young lady, introduce themselves, ask about what she did for a living.

Jack watched Honey make the daiquiri.

"Shanks sore... uh... gi'ing a hand," Jack rumbled, "Not too nanny guys just go at you like dat."

Jack pantomimed a jabbing/slicing motion, much like the brawler had done to her.

A more sober Rebecca would not wish ill against most, but she was having a garbage night and the guy she had to deal with was a total skeeze. He deserved to be in the drunk tank for the night to think about how he acted. If she was being honest, her aggressive actions and inebriated condition probably should have earned her a spot there, but she would not question it. He started it, but she escalated the situation. It was unfair, perhaps, but there was a benefit to being a delicate looking female involved in a barroom altercation.

Oh, also, she had not made the mistake of cutting a bar employee with a bottle. There was no moral quandary. He was an a** and got what he deserved.

And now, while he was sleeping it off in jail, Becca was being treated to a daquiri and mozzarella sticks. Her mood visibly perked up, and she looked at the bartender and the guard, making sure not to forget her manners. ”Thenk ye, baith ay ye.” It was nice to have people looking out for her.

The larger person who saved Becca gave thanks of her own for the Scot’s decision to intervene after the drunk decided to attack. Rebecca giggled as she watched a “bottle slicing” motion acted out. ”Nae need tae thenk me. He was a jerk an’ yoo’re not,” she explained, sipping the frozen drink placed in front of her by Honey, the sweet bartender.

Honey. The name made her think back to Agnes, which reminded her why she was at the bar that night in the first place. The expression on her face sank once again. ”Too many jerks tonecht.” She was a jerk for kissing Agnes and Agnes was a jerk for kissing her back only to blame her for all her problems. Her eye glanced at the phone on the counter, but she shook off any text ideas she was getting.

Focusing on her savior for the evening, Rebecca offered her hand, unsure if she should hold her fingers out or keep them in for some kind of fist bump, eyeing the massive arms she was inviting, unsure of their dexterity. Some of her students with unique extremities felt more comfortable forgoing handshakes, so she had some practice leaving her options open. ”Ah’m Becca,” she introduced.

>> ”Thenk ye, baith ay ye. Nae need tae thenk me. He was a jerk an’ yoo’re not. Too many jerks tonecht.”

Jack gave a casual shrug. It was all part of the job. She kept one hand clapped to the paper towel that was stopping the bleeding.

>> ”Ah’m Becca.”

“Jack,” the prawn said simply, “Or Chief, de’ends on who ya ask.”

The /f/ in Chief was breathed with a sharp exhale, not quite an f. She took the proffered hand as an invitation to fist-bump. Handshakes were awkward and unwieldy. She lightly tapped her knuckles to Becca’s, and let her lavender eyes swim towards the floor. She spied a waiter with a plate-full of mozzarella sticks. They locked eyes, and the man began to make their way over.

Jack gladly accepted the plate, and slid it towards Becca. There. Placate the patron. Not that she seemed out of sorts, as it was.

Becca finally earned herself a name from her savior, though it did her no good to figure out the Security Person’s gender. Jack could have been Jack or short for Jacqueline. The drunk girl resigned herself to sticking with gender-neutral thoughts for the time being. At least now she knew the colorful person’s name. ”Jack! It’s a pleasure,” she greeted cheerily, as her fist-bump offer was accepted. Occasionally she could manage to not be socially awkward. Little victories.

And speaking of little victories, the mozzarella sticks arrived! ”Thenk ye!” With the excitement that could only come from a hungry, inebriated young woman, she dunked one of the sticks into the marinara sauce pooled in a small dipping cup and quickly shoved it in her mouth.

…And quickly let it roll off her tongue back to the plate. ”Ow… tho hot… bit thae guid…” Between her accent, the slurring, and the temporary burnt tongue, deciphering Rebecca would be a challenge for anyone. She needed to work on controlling herself.

Just like earlier in the night. Rebecca groaned, looking back at her phone and the failed attempt at a typo-ridden unsent message. She had kissed her engaged ex-girlfriend and now she was at a club getting sloppy drunk to deal with Agnes walking away. What was she doing? Of course Agnes walked away; the kiss was a mistake, and Rebecca put her in a position like that for the second time in her life.

Moving from being angry-drunk to sad-drunk, Rebecca leaned back in her seat, resting her head against the carapace of her new friend (and failing to see why that might be rude.) Looking up at Jack, her mismatched eyes upside-down thanks to the positions she was in. ”Ah’m jist totally dumb taenight…” Tears were welling in the corner of her eyes, which might seem like an overreaction for biting into a piping hot mozzarella stick.

>> ”Thenk ye!”

Jack nodded wordlessly, shifting her weight. Perhaps now that she had mozzerella sticks, Jack could take her leave and let the young woman eat. Becca seemed to be doing just find, and Jack needed some medical attention. (Or at the very least, she needed a bandage instead of a paper towel.)

>> ”Ow… tho hot… bit thae guid…”

The prawn smiled. The mozzerella sticks were pretty fantastic. She gave another affirming nod. The girl reclined in her seat, the weight of her head barely registsering against the carapace-lined midsection, and the prawn shifted her weight slightly, expression slackening in confusion.

>> ”Ah’m jist totally dumb taenight…”

The prawn's brow's knit. Becca was... very... inebriated.

"E'ery-un nakes nis-stakes," the prawn murmured awkwardly, unsure of whether or not the young woman was actually referencing the mozzerella sticks, or if she was referencing something else.

Everyone made mistakes. Sure, probably. People were not perfect, but Rebecca was, like… the most not-perfect. She was a temptress harlot, and temptress harlots did not deserve mozzarella sticks.

Of course, that was not going to stop her from eating her gifted mozzarella sticks. Picking one up off the plate, she split it in half and blew on the treat for a bit until she thought it might be less… burny. The water pooling in her eyes overflowed and started sliding down her cheeks as she took a bite. The cheese was still melty and hot, but she did not have to yelp in pain which was an improvement.

With a mouthful of mozzarella and breading, Rebecca continued expressing herself to the captive shelled audience she was leaning on. ”Ah kissed her. She has a fiancée an' Ah kissed 'er! It's (sniffle) gonnae be weird forever noo! An' these sticks ur sae guid!” She was a ball of emotions with tears running down her face.

She dunked the rest of her mozzarella stick into marinara sauce and took another bite, trying to calm herself down. It was occurring to Becca that she may have been slightly more affected by the drinking than she initially thought. ”Ah shooldnae hae come it tonecht…” She was only making the night worse for everyone. It was unfair to shove the burden of herself on Jack.”

>> “Ah kissed her. She has a fiancée an' Ah kissed 'er! It's (sniffle) gonnae be weird forever noo! An' these sticks ur sae guid!”

This… was not about the cheese sticks. The prawn suddenly found herself wanting to make a hasty escape. Now she was crying—big, fat crocodile tears—and she was muttering some nonsense about kissing a betrothed woman. Some people made bad choices… and some people made… really bad choices. Of course Jack’s heart went out to the young woman, but she also just felt… really uncomfortable.

>> “Ah shooldnae hae come it tonecht…”

“Iss you ‘eren’t here, no un ‘ould has rescued nee srun dat guy,” Jack interjected hastily, trying to find some silver lining out of the whole ordeal and trying, desperately, to turn the focus away from the engaged girl that the young redhead had kissed. Jack didn’t know how to grapple with that, so she was going to avoid talking about it like the plague, “He coulda done so nuch nore terri’le sings to nee iss you ‘eren’t here.”

Jack was being genuine about that. A drunk man with a broken bottle could do a lot of damage.

When faced with an impossible situation, Jack was a trooper. Rebecca was a mess, and one the crustacean had no obligation to deal with beyond gratitude. No one would have blamed Jack for backing away from the crazy woman slowly, but she held firm and did what she could to cheer Rebecca up.

The redhead made many mistakes that night, but if she was not around to have Jack’s back, the bodyguard might have incurred a more serious injury from the drunken jerk they subdued together. The logic was sound to Rebecca, who was too drunk to realize that, without her around, there would have been no alcohol-fueled altercations to interfere in.

”Thenk ye,” Rebecca replied genuinely. Knowing she was not a complete screw up helped ease her mind, and for a moment, it was the tiniest bit easier to push away thoughts of the kiss. She made mistakes, but she would make things better.

Looking at the half-empty beverage in front of her on the bar top, Rebecca pushed the glass lightly away from herself with her fingertips. ”Ah hink Ah shoulds head haim.” She gestured to get up from her seat before her eyes found her mozzarella sticks again, and she stopped. ”Ah’ll head haim efter mozzarella sticks,” she compromised.

Taking another marinara-soaked bite, Rebecca replied with a closed-lip moan of appreciation for the deliciousness. ”These really ur sae guid.” Picking up the platter, she held it up to Jack, wanting to be polite. ”Want one?”