Drunk Girl By Chris Janson

College towns are notorious for having full bars on Friday nights. Every student 21 and over packed in, drinking, dancing, looking for someone to go home with, and that's why John Murphy spent his Fridays at the Dropship, a dive bar two blocks off Main Street and off the college kid radar. Now that didn't mean that he wasn't looking to find someone to take home, or ever in need of getting plastered on a Friday. It just meant that he acknowledged the fact that he wasn't a college kid, or looking to hear about how hard tests were, or how fried brains were. The Dropship was more his speed, plenty of people, a chick or two to pick up when needed, and most importantly, no cover charge. He hated going to work the day after a night out with a stamp on his hand, letting everyone know where he'd been the night before.

The smacking sound of the pool balls could be heard over the jukebox music and he was at the corner of the bar scooping out the crowd. It was still early, only ten, so it was mainly the regulars, which he liked, it was comforting to recognize everyone around him. He nursed his first beer before picking up the second and making his way towards the pool tables. He knew enough of the people there to easily join in on the next game.

It was during his first game of pool that night that he saw her, all blonde curls and perfect curves. He had learned a long time ago how to read a girl by her outfit, and this girl screamed take me home. Her hair was neatly pinned over one shoulder, exposing a fair amount of neck, a form fitting dark blue dress showed every curve she had, the right amount of cleavage, and she was wearing what Murphy called Fuck Me heels. By her outfit he also knew that this bar was not her original destination. But that was what made her his perfect target for the night. Clearly she was out looking for something, and he was pretty sure he could be that something for one night.

When his game was over, and his beer was gone, she was still at the bar. He made his way towards hers, going over all the different outcomes for the night, all of them involved that dress on the floor. He wasn't a good guy, he knew it, he never pretended to be. But he also knew that he could pretend to be whatever she needed for the night, and they could both be satisfied by sunrise but going their own way.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, coming to stand next to her, leaning his side against the bar, so he could appreciate the dress. As his eyes racked over her body he eventually made it to her face only to be met with big blue eyes that were already glassy with alcohol and a smile that seemed almost out of place in a bar like this.

"Shots?" she asked, the one word slurred a little. Her face was flushed and she swayed sitting on her stool, one drink already in her hand.

"Sure blondie." He laughed, knowing this wouldn't lead anywhere with her this drunk. He might be an asshole but he wasn't that guy. He mouthed the word water to the bar tender glancing over at the girl and tapped his empty beer.

When the bar tender set down the class of water in front of her, he could see the way she glared at it before picking it up. He reached for his new beer before tipping it towards her.

"This is a glass of water, not a shot." Her gaze fixed on him and he could feel the annoyance there.

"You're sober enough to tell." He was surprised. From looking at her, he was sure she was a goner.

"I'm not stupid." She took a sip of the water, her eyes briefly closing.

"I figured you'd need the water more than a shot."

"You figured wrong." She muttered slapping a crisp hundred dollar bill on the bar top, getting the bar tenders attention again. She added her ID and a credit card to the pile. "Vodka, straight, start a tab." She told him. "I'm a really good tipper."

"Enjoy sweetheart." He smiled before heading back towards the pool tables.

He couldn't help but keep an eye on her as the night worn on. She floated from table to table, person to person, laughing in that extra loud way only drunk girls can, falling over her own feet, landing in strangers laps. She was like a pinball, bouncing from one table to the next, from the jukebox to the bar. With his third beer long gone, he watched her dance, arms moving, body twirling, eyes shut. She moved like there was no one there watching her, how he'd imagine she danced at home, alone. But watching her also meant keeping an eye on the frat type looking assholes that had started buying her drinks awhile back, after he assumed she'd been cut off at the bar. He wasn't the type to hit on a drunk girl, and he'd never been a knight in shining armor before but there was something about this blonde girl. She was clearly reaching her rock bottom, and that was place that he knew better than most, and he couldn't just let someone take advantage of her, not like this.

When the polo wearing idiot grabbed her ass attempting to dance with her, he made his move to the bar. He flagged down the bar tender he knew, the one that had served him earlier in the night, Nathan Miller.

"Another beer man?" he asked.

"No, I'm closing my tab and blondies." Murphy said shooting a glance over his shoulder at the girl, still in the arms of the frat asshat. "You got her cards man? I'm gonna make sure she gets home, and not with those fucktards."

"You?" Miller raised an eyebrow at him. And yeah, Murphy could read the surprise on his face. Truth be told it surprised him too.

"Yeah man, look at her. She's trashed and super hero Blake isn't here tonight to save the day." Murphy scuffed. "Dude I'm an asshole, but I'm not that kind of asshole." He shot anther look over his shoulder, wanting to make sure she was still out there, and not being pulled towards the door, or the bathroom.

"Yeah man, I'll close her out." Miller nodded after a moment moving to the register. He came back a second later hand him his own debt card and slip to sign, along with the blonde's card and ID. "Dude, don't make me regret this."

"See if I leave a tip now." He muttered signing the blondes slip before sliding it back to Miller. "Thanks." He nodded before turning back around, studying the ID in his hand. Clarke Griffin, 22, 5'5", 123 lbs, blue eyes, organ donor. But most importantly, her address, that was really all he needed to know about her.

"Clarke," he said as he got closer, getting her attention. Her eyes were heavy, and her smile goofy when she finally looked at him.

"Me?" she sounded confused, pointing to herself.

"Yeah, come on, let's go home." He nodded towards the door, tapping her two cards on his hand. He wasn't exactly sure how to go about it, getting her to leave with him.

She looked around, confused, using the frat guy to keep herself propped up. "Home?"

"Yeah, you, home." Murphy rolled his eyes, reaching out to take her arm.

"I don't know you." She took a step back, falling into some other frat guys lap. "I certainly don't know you." She looked at the guy, his whole table laughing.

"You could." He winked, snaking his arms around her waist.

"Maybe another night buddy." Murphy said, stepping forward and pulling Clarke off the guy. "She's going home." He didn't need to fix any of them with a hard stare, or press the matter any farther, and Clarke didn't protest anymore, just stumbled as he helped her towards the door and out of the bar.

"You didn't buy me a shot." She shouted at him. "You asked if you could buy me a drink."

Murphy snorted. "You're right, I got you a water, now I'm taking you home."

"I don't want to go home, I want a drink."

"I think you've had plenty to drink." He fumbled getting his keys out of his pocket and keeping her upright.

"Everything is spinning." She said falling into him even more as he pulled open the door.

"Fuck, if you puke in my truck, I swear-" he took a deep breath looking down at the mess of a girl in his arms, eyes shut, head lolled to the side. She was passed out and he wasn't sure if he should thank God or some shit.

It didn't take him long to get her up into the passenger seat of his truck, and the seat belt over her. The last thing he needed was to get stopped because she wasn't wearing a seatbelt. Once he had himself in the drivers seat, he typed in her address in his phone and pulled out of the parking lot. He couldn't believe this was how he was ending his night. Taking some drunk girl home, literally.

He's easily found her keys in her purse, and put both her ID and card back in her wallet. He wasn't even temped to look through her shit, which was odd to him. He was a nosy person by nature, but he couldn't bring himself to. So instead he helped her out of his truck, into her apartment building, and into her apartment. It took him a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the change of light when he entered her place, but he quickly found her room, dropping her snoring body onto the mattress. He left her purse, phone and keys on a small entryway table, and looked around for a pen to write his number on. He knew if it was him, he would have a few questions in the morning. He found a pad of sticky notes, and a sharpie, and jotted his name and number down, sticking in on her phone before turning to leave, locking the door before it closed behind him.

If he was honesty with himself, part of him felt good for helping her. But he was rarely that honest with anyone, let alone himself. So he went to find something to eat, a greasy burger from the fast food place on the main drag that is open 24/7. Sitting in his truck eating his burger he watched as the bars across the street start to close, and groups of people begin to gather, couples pairing off before heading into the night. There is nothing left for him to do tonight expect go home to his paper thin walls of his own shitty apartment. He was disappointed that his night didn't turn out the way he had hoped for, he was really glad he made sure Clarke Griffin had gotten home and to bed, and not passed around those frat guys like some toy.

The next afternoon, when he finally pulled himself from bed he was surprised to see a voicemail from a number he didn't recognize.

"Uh, hi, this is Clarke, Clarke Griffin. From last night. I-um-I don't even know what to say. Thank you, I guess? I checked my bank statement and went back to the Dropship to ask about last night, and this bartender said that you took me home, wanted to make sure I got there safely. I really can't thank you enough for that. Last night was-I was-it was a total mess, so thank you so much. I'd love to buy you a beer, or maybe a coffee. My liver my never forgive me for last night. But uh-thank you again for getting me home. I really appreciate it."