Beauties and Bar Brawls

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"Double Jack. Straight up."

The bartender gave Dean the once-over. Dean tried to look manly. He failed.

"ID?"

Dean opted for a smile he hoped was charming.

"Come on…" he urged, "You don't need to see my ID. I can tell you my name."

"ID," said the bartender, unmoved.

"You sure?" said Dean, "It's a strange name. People keep tellin' me, you got a real strange name. Wanna hear it?"

"ID,' said the bartender, for the third time.

"I'll tell ya anyway," said Dean, digging in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, "It's Ulysses S Grant…"

He slapped a fifty dollar bill on the counter, and slid it across until the folded note hit the bartender's planted, meaty hand. The burly man hesitated for a second, then flicked the note off the counter so fast Dean didn't even see the move. The man turned away and poured Dean's drink.

Smiling gratefully, Dean swivelled round on the barstool and took a long sip as he scanned the room.

It was no different from any of a hundred bars Dean had been in over the last couple of years. It smelled of stale beer and dirt. A jukebox in the corner. An array of pool tables, and a lot of customers hunched over their drinks in moody silence – like they wished they were anywhere else.

Out of habit Dean checked out every person in the place – letting his eyes flick over them for the briefest of seconds, relying on his honed senses to pick out threats.

There were none.

Satisfied that the bar was – most probably – populated by humans only, Dean started scoping out the talent.

There were a few candidates.

A group of girls near the jukebox, sipping on brightly coloured seltzers and dancing to the music – currently Bon Jovi's Blaze of Glory.

A cute blonde at the end of the bar who kept making a point of not looking his way.

And another…

A pretty brunette in tight jeans, playing pool with a group of guys.

Dean studied their game for a moment and realised that the girl was kicking their asses!

"You go girl…" he thought, before turning his attention back to the blonde.

He waited for her to look at him, like he knew she would, and flashed her a dazzling smile.

She smiled back.

Bingo!

Slipping off the barstool with the grace of a cheetah, Dean sauntered over to her. He leaned his elbow on the counter, his eyes locked to hers, and said…

Nothing.

He just kept up the pose and stared at her.

Ten seconds went by, and the girl's smile started to fade.

"Can I help you?" she said.

"Yeah, sorry…" said Dean, "I'm just trying to think of a line. I'm a little slow."

"Take your time."

Dean kept staring. He counted down another ten seconds in his head, then…

"I got nothing," he admitted, "I know every line ever slung out and not one… not one… comes close to being good enough for a woman as gorgeous as you."

The girl's smile rocketed up a few notches and she leaned back, exposing her… generous cleavage.

"I'm Anna," she said, offering a hand.

"Dean."

Instead of shaking the proffered hand, Dean grasped it and drew it up to his lips, planting a soft kiss on each knuckle.

The girl giggled.

"Too easy…" thought Dean.

"So, Anna…" he said out loud, "What do you do?"

"Receptionist," she answered, "You?"

"Just a drifter, baby…"

"A drifter?" she looked confused.

"Yeah," said Dean, "Like the song."

"What song?"

She was confused. Dean was surprised that she wouldn't know which song he was talking about. Especially in a bar like this.

"Whitesnake. Here I Go Again."

The voice came from behind him, and he turned around.

It was the pool-playing brunette.

Up close, Dean revised his estimate of her. She wasn't just pretty. She was spectacular.

Deep, dark eyes under heavy brows, and a shaggy mane of hair – there was a wildness, a sassiness about her that stirred something terrifying inside him.

"You know it?" said Dean.

"Obviously."

She grabbed a beer from the barman – long-necked, ice-cold – and retreated back to her game without giving him a second look. Dean chuckled.

"Can you play it for me?"

Anna's voice snapped Dean out of thoughts that – had they continued – would have been very x-rated.

He turned around again and smiled at her, easing the frown which the presence of the brunette had placed on her brow.

"Sure," said Dean, "I think you'll like it."

"I like that new girl," said Anna, "What's her name? Uh… Britney… something! Arrows?"

"Who?"

It was Dean's turn to be confused.

Before he could interrogate her on her obviously-questionable taste in music, he heard the crash of a pool cue hitting slate, followed by:

"You think I'm gonna let you get away with this, you crazy bitch?"

Setting his drink down, Dean turned back to face the pool tables, where three of the guys had squared up to the knockout brunette. Dean noted, with some admiration, that she wasn't backing down from them. In fact, she casually sipped her beer as she looked each of them straight in the eye.

"You lost," she said, "Pay up!"

"The hell we will! You think you can hustle us and get away with it?"

One of the guys, a gym-junkie with a crew cut took a threatening step towards her.

She took a step back. But only because, if she hadn't, he would've knocked her clean over.

Dean decided he'd seen enough.

He crossed the bar in three quick strides, coming up alongside the brunette – right in Crew-Cut's face.

"Okay, guys, that's enough," he said, "It doesn't take three of you to pick on a woman, does it?"

"What are you gonna do about it?" Weenie-Number-Two, a sour-faced porker with chopped ginger hair turned his weasely eyes on Dean.

"Just sayin'… there's no need for this to get outta hand."

"It's okay," said the girl, putting a hand on his arm and trying to draw him back, "I got this."

"You got trouble's, what you got, you cheating bitch!"

This was from the last guy – the shortest of the three, with a snake tattoo on his cheek.

Dean immediately stepped in front of the girl, placing himself between her and Tattoo-Face.

"There are two ways this is gonna end," said Dean, his voice low and even, "Either you walk outta here… or these two chuckleheads carry you out…"

"Oh yeah?" Tattoo-Face stepped even closer, so that Dean caught the reek of cheap beer on his breath.

"Enough!"

The girl tried to tug him away again, but Dean shrugged her off. A quick flick around the room revealed that he now had a crowd. The patrons were all watching the drama intently while the barman – to the joy of all stereotypes – was wiping glasses and pretending to ignore them.

Dean focused on Tattoo-Face, his lips curling up in a taunting smile.

"I'm gonna count to three," said Dean.

Tattoo-Face sneered.

"One…"

Tattoo-Face tensed, obviously determined to stay put.

"Two…"

Then Dean cheated.

Without bothering to count to three, he planted his left heel, transferring his weight backwards, before launching forward, and catching Tattoo-Face smack on the bridge of the nose with a vicious head butt.

The man went down like a puppet with it's strings cut.

Before he hit the ground, Dean swung his right elbow up, connecting with the side of Porker's temple.

But he'd miscalculated.

The third guy – Crew-Cut – was too close and reacted too fast.

As Dean swivelled to face him, ready to launch a clubbing overhand blow, Crew-Cut caught him in the midriff with a solid uppercut.

The air exploded from Dean's lungs, pain lancing through his side, and he bent double. Crew-Cut got a large, meaty hand on his throat, and hoisted Dean up in the air, before slamming him back down onto the pool table.

Dean's head cracked against a stray ball and he saw stars for a second.

Crew-Cut was leaning over him, his teeth bared in an ugly grimace.

Fuzzily, Dean thought he looked a little like that wrestler, Jake the Snake Roberts.

Then, Crew-Cut seemed to choke. His lips puckered up in a disturbing parody of a kiss, and his eyes went crossed. He mewled, like a kicked kitten, and released the pressure on Dean's windpipe.

Almost in slow-motion, Crew-Cut tipped over sideways and hit the floor.

Dean sat up, gasping for breath and rubbing at his sore throat.

He saw the girl, her eyes blazing, standing over the prone figure of Crew-Cut. Then he realised what had just happened.

She'd kicked the bastard in the nads!

Dean grinned.

"Thanks," he said.

Her eyes flicked up at him, and he winced, without knowing why.

She looked pissed.

"You just had to get involved, didn't you?" she said.

"You're welcome," Dean countered, now thoroughly put out by her less-than-grateful attitude.

"I didn't need your help."

"Well, next time I'll know that."

"You'd better."

"So there's going to be a next time?"

Dean didn't know why he said that. She didn't look like she was in the mood for teasing.

But, suddenly, she smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through after a storm. Dean found that he couldn't breathe, and it had nothing to do with being strangled twenty seconds ago.

"I'm Dean," he choked.

"Hi Dean, " she punched him on the arm, "I'm Lisa…"

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