Protect Me Daddy

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

E ver get the feeling that you’re stuck on loop?

Like every day is the same? Like every shift in the crappy bar you work at is the same? Like every customer is basically the same leery, overly-handsy, lecherous asshole?

I’ve been getting that feeling a lot recently.

I slid the damp rag across the bar's sticky surface, wincing as my aching shoulders protested. The neon Budweiser sign flickered, casting a lurid glow that barely penetrated the haze of cigarette smoke. Through gaps in the gaudy beer logos, I glimpsed the gritty street outside painted in harsh orange. Another double shift done, but the day was far from over.

"Christ, my dogs are barking," I muttered, flexing my sore feet in their scuffed work shoes.

The clink of glasses rang out as I restocked the shelves, my mind automatically tallying up the meager tips stuffed in my apron pocket. Not enough. Never enough. Just like always.

"Looks like Ramen for dinner. Again." I sighed, remembering a time when my biggest worry was passing Anatomy & Physiology.

The memory hit me like a punch to the gut - packing up my dorm room, the dream of becoming a nurse crumbling as surely as the mounting pile of unpaid tuition bills. I'd wanted so badly to help people, to make a difference. Now look at me.

"Hey Tilly, can I get another beer?" A gruff voice snapped me back to reality.

I pasted on a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Coming right up, Frank."

I must have served Frank a thousand drinks. He was in here most nights, propping up the bar, almost never talking to anyone, eyes sad and clothes disheveled. Still, on balance, he was one of my favorite customers. He never did anything inappropriate, and—as far as I knew—he wasn’t affiliated with any of the criminal organizations who seemed to call this bar home.

"Here you go," I said, sliding the foaming mug across the bar. "That'll be five bucks."

Frank tossed a crumpled bill on the counter. I smoothed it out, noting the single before tucking it away. One step closer to rent, but still so far to go.

The heavy thud of the front door opening made me tense instinctively. Time for the night crowd, and all the trouble they brought with them. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever came next.

I slipped into my practiced neutral expression as the evening regulars stumbled in. Dock workers with calloused hands, petty thieves with shifty eyes, lost souls seeking solace at the bottom of a glass—I'd seen it all before. My face said "I'm here but not really here" as I mechanically poured drinks and made small talk.

"How's it hangin', doll?" rasped Jimmy, a weathered fisherman who smelled perpetually of brine.

"Same old, same old," I replied with a shrug, sliding his usual whiskey across the bar.

My skin prickled as the door banged open again. A raucous laugh cut through the low din, and my stomach dropped. Earl Grimes. Just what I needed tonight.

"Well, well, if it ain't my favorite little barmaid," Earl's gravelly voice carried across the room. His bloodshot eyes locked onto me, a predatory gleam I knew all too well.

I busied myself wiping down glasses, hoping he'd find some other target for his drunken attention. No such luck. Earl's meaty hands slapped the bar in front of me.

"Two shots of your cheapest rotgut, sweetheart. And maybe a little sugar for ol' Earl, eh?" He leered, alcohol fumes wafting over me.

"Coming right up," I muttered, reaching for the well whiskey. My hands trembled slightly as I poured, hyper-aware of Earl's eyes roving over me.

God, I hated this part of the job. But what choice did I have? It was this or be out on the street. I squared my shoulders, reminding myself I was tougher than I looked. I'd survived worse than Earl Grimes.

Hadn't I?

As the night wore on, Earl's voice grew louder, his comments cruder. I tried to stay busy at the far end of the bar, but his words still reached me, each one like a greasy finger trailing down my spine.

"Look at that ass," he slurred to his equally inebriated buddies. "Bet she's a wild one in the sack."

I gritted my teeth, scrubbing furiously at an already clean glass. My cheeks burned with a mix of anger and humiliation. Part of me wanted to march over and dump a pitcher of beer on his head. But I knew better. Guys like Earl, they feed on reaction.

The clink of glasses and murmur of conversations became distant echoes as Earl's voice cut through the haze once more. "What's the matter, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?" His jeering laughter rang in my ears, a mocking symphony that grated on my nerves. I kept my eyes down.

Just then, the door opened, and a hush fell over the bar. A man I'd never seen before walked in, his presence commanding attention without a word. He moved with quiet confidence, settling into a corner seat.

When I approached, his eyes met mine. They were startlingly alert, assessing me in a way that felt . . . protective, almost. Not like the usual leers I endured.

"Whiskey, neat," he said, his deep voice sending an unexpected shiver through me. “Something good. Your choice.”

"Coming right up," I replied, surprised by how steady my own voice sounded.

As I poured his drink—a twelve year old Lagavulin—I couldn't help but sneak glances at him. There was something different about this guy. He seemed hyper-aware of his surroundings, yet completely at ease.

He sat there, the dim light casting intriguing shadows on his chiseled features, enhancing the aura of mystery that surrounded him. Even in the worn-out bar stool, he exuded an air of quiet authority that commanded attention without the need for words. His presence alone seemed to shift the atmosphere around him, like a ripple on a tranquil pond disturbed by an unseen force.

I couldn't tear my gaze away from him, captivated by the way his sharp eyes seemed to miss nothing in the room. It was as if he had spent a lifetime observing, analyzing, and deciphering every detail.

The glass in my hands felt cool against my skin as I passed it over to him. He gave the whiskey a long sniff.

“Lagavulin,” he grunted with an appreciative nod. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He passed me some cash. A fifty.

“Keep the change.”

“Really?”

“Sure. A good recommendation is worth its weight in gold.”

I felt my cheeks burn. It was the biggest tip I’d ever received. “Thank you.”

My delight was short-lived. When I returned to the bar, Earl was waiting for me. He tapped his watch.

“Come on, doll, you’ve got good customers getting old here.” His bloodshot eyes fixed on me with predatory intent.

“Sorry,” I said, instantly regretting it. I shouldn’t have to apologize for doing my job.

"Don’t worry, sweetcheeks, I forgive you," he slurred, swaying dangerously. "How 'bout another round for me an' the boys?"

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "I'm sorry, Earl, but I think you've had enough for tonight. How about some water instead?"

His face contorted, anger flashing in his eyes. "Don't tell me what I've had, you little tease," he growled.

My heart raced, but I kept my voice steady. "I'm not trying to upset you, Earl. It's just bar policy. I can call you a cab if you'd like."

Earl's meaty fist slammed down on the bar. "I said I want another drink!"

I flinched, fighting the urge to back away. "I'm sorry, but the answer's still no."

Turning to serve another customer, I silently prayed Earl would give up and leave. But I'd barely taken two steps when I felt a vise-like grip on my wrist.

Earl yanked me towards him, nearly pulling me over the bar. "Listen here, you stuck-up bitch," he snarled, his alcohol-soaked breath hot on my face.

Panic surged through me. I looked around desperately, but the other patrons averted their eyes or watched with morbid fascination. No one was going to help me.

"Let go," I hissed, trying to wrench my arm free. But Earl's grip only tightened, his fingers digging painfully into my skin.

Earl's angry eyes bored into mine, his face twisted into an ugly sneer. "Come on, sweetheart, don't be like that," he growled, his free hand reaching for my face. I recoiled, my stomach churning at the stench of whiskey on his breath.

To my horror, the rest of the patrons were just looking away. Even Frank. There were laughs and snorts, even some cries of “Take your top off!”

My mind raced, searching for a way out. To my shame, my mind went back to the place it always went when I was in trouble. My childhood. Memories of being snuggled up with a stuffie, playing, without a care in the world. How I wished I could run away from all this and go back to a place where I didn’t feel constant anxiety, constant threat.

Earl’s hand tightened around my wrist. I couldn't break his grip, and no one was stepping in. Maybe if I screamed . . .

Suddenly, a large hand clamped down on Earl's shoulder. I blinked in surprise, recognizing the quiet man from the corner. His presence seemed to fill the space behind Earl, radiating a controlled power that made my breath catch.

"The lady said no more drinks," his deep voice rumbled, calm but leaving no room for argument.

I felt a flutter in my chest, relief mingling with something else I couldn't quite name. Earl's grip on my wrist loosened slightly, and I dared to hope this nightmare might be ending.

I held my breath, watching the silent battle of wills unfold before me. Earl's face contorted, clearly torn between maintaining his tough facade and backing down from the imposing figure behind him.

"This ain't your business, pal," Earl snarled, but I noticed a slight quaver in his voice. His grip on my wrist loosened further, and I slowly pulled my arm back, rubbing the sore spot where his fingers had dug in.

The stranger didn't move, his steady gaze boring into Earl. The tension in the air was palpable, crackling like electricity. I found myself mesmerized by my protector’s unwavering composure, a stark contrast to Earl's increasingly agitated state.

Finally, Earl's bravado crumbled. "Whatever," he muttered, stumbling back from the bar. "This place is a dump anyway." He shot me a venomous glare that made my skin crawl. "Watch yourself, sweetheart. Next time your knight in shining armor might not be around."

As Earl retreated with his group of cronies, hurling slurred insults over his shoulder, I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The handsome stranger stayed vigilant, his eyes tracking Earl's movements until the door swung shut behind them.

When my savior turned back to me, his expression softened. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly, genuine concern evident in his deep voice.

Our eyes met, and I felt a warmth spread through my chest. "I . . . yes, thank you," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. I was struck by the gentleness in his gaze, so at odds with the commanding presence he'd shown moments ago.

"That was . . ." I trailed off, searching for words. Terrifying? Incredible? I settled on, "You didn't have to do that."

His lips quirked into a small smile. "I couldn't stand by and watch," he said simply. "No one should have to deal with that kind of behavior."

I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. His kindness, after years of enduring the worst of humanity in this bar, threatened to overwhelm me. "Really, thank you," I repeated, blinking back the sudden moisture in my eyes.

I busied myself wiping down the bar, trying to regain my composure. The night wore on, the usual cacophony of clinking glasses and murmured conversations fading into background noise. My thoughts kept drifting back to the man who’d come to my aid. He was still seated quietly in the corner, his presence a reassuring anchor in the chaotic sea of O'Malley's.

I kept glancing over to check he was still there. He made me feel safe. Thankfully, he stayed all the way until the end of the night.

As last call approached, I started my closing routine, my muscles aching from the long shift. Gathering empty glasses, I noticed Dwight had slipped out without fanfare. A pang of disappointment hit me, though I couldn't quite explain why.

"Time to cash out, Tilly," Marcus, the night manager, called from the office.

I nodded, making my way over. As I counted my tips, a folded bill caught my eye. Unfolding it revealed a crisp hundred-dollar note wrapped around a business card. My heart raced as I read the neat handwriting:

"A little extra because of what you went through tonight. In case of trouble, call me. - Dwight"

His number was printed below.

"Everything okay?" Marcus asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

I swallowed hard, slipping the card into my pocket. "Fine," I lied, my voice steadier than I felt. "Just . . . a better night than usual."

As I gathered my things, a chill ran down my spine. Through the grimy window, I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure across the street. The streetlight flickered, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw Earl's leering face.

"You need a ride home, Tilly?" Marcus called out.

I hesitated, my hand instinctively touching the pocket where Dwight's card lay hidden. "No," I said finally, "I'll be fine."

But as I stepped out into the night, I couldn't shake the feeling that trouble was closer than I realized.