The Parting Gift(8)

The tinkle of the bell caught Blaine’s attention and he turned groggily to look at the door. A mesmerizing lull seemed to be settling in his brain. A short, wiry man stepped through the front door with a gorgeous blonde on his arm. The man wore a broad smile, like he’d just won big at the track. He gingerly helped the woman out of her coat and turned to hang it on the wall hook.

The woman with him stepped out of his way, moving under a hanging lantern, illuminating her fully in the dim room. Blaine squinted through his rapidly descending haze. She seemed vaguely familiar.

Beside him the red-headed man taunted the others, “Hey, fellas, look who’s back in town!”

“Yeah, boys! Isn’t that Miss Bell?” another added. The name struck a chord in Blaine’s mind, and he did a double-take at the woman who had just come in.

“I tell you what, I’d like to ring her bell,” oozed the dark Italian on the other side of the table. The other men chuckled and agreed, if their gawking glances were any indicator.

“What did you say her name was?” Blaine slurred, pouring another glass from his nearly empty bottle.

“Bell. She’s been in a few times. Always a different guy with her.” All eyes were hungrily tracing her movements now as she followed her escort to the dance floor.

Blaine threw back another shot of whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It dawned on him whom he was watching. The men beside him groaned as if in pain.

“Doesn’t she move good, lads?” the red-headed Patrick sighed.

“Bell…” Blaine repeated. “Hold on a minute.” The realization broke through like lightning. She had asked him to take her home. She had said they would go dancing another time. And here she was not one hour later dancing with somebody else. With somebody else – like she hadn’t been out with him at all.

“What’s the matter, Cool? You look a little orange,” the dark-skinned Tony mocked. “You know her or something?”

“Yes.” He slammed his glass down on the table and turned back to the dance floor. The walls seemed to spin around him, but he trudged unsteadily toward the dancing couple anyway.

“I’d like to cut in,” he slurred with a tap on the man’s shoulder.

Without so much as a glance, the man replied, “Get lost, creep.” His back was to Blaine, but Miss Bell could see him well enough. Her gaze locked on his eyes. They must have reflected dark fury, because hers were full of alarm.

Rather than draw him back to reality, her fear inflamed him. He was not so easy to forget. Even if he had been tacit earlier, she should still be home pining over the tragic loss. And whom did she choose to help her recover from her broken heart? This pitiful excuse for a replacement.

“I said, ‘I’m cutting in’, creep.” He straightened up to his full height and squared his shoulders, grabbed the little man’s arm and pulled him abruptly out of the way, sending him sprawling to the floor. Hoots arose from the corner booth behind him.

“You’re drunk,” Miss Bell snapped. Her brown eyes flashed with a mixture of fear and indignation.

“So?”

“I don’t want to dance with you, Captain Graham.”

“Oh, really? You seemed anxious enough this morning when Captain Davis was setting up our little rendezvous.” He put his arm around her waist and grabbed her hand in his other, sweeping her across the floor. From somewhere deep in his sub-conscious a voice whispered, What are you doing? You don’t even like her. But it was so faint, he could hardly hear it over the rushing whiskey which drowned his awareness.

“Captain Graham, please.” She strained against him, pushing frantically at his chest, trying to free herself from his firm grasp.

“Ginny, is this the guy from earlier?” The pesky little man was back again. Apparently he didn’t know when he was outclassed.

“Yes. Please do something, Roger,” she pleaded.

“Yeah, Roger,” taunted Patrick in a high sing-song pitch. “Do somethin’.” His companions laughed raucously, inciting Blaine’s fury. Roger’s face reddened. His eyes darted from Miss Bell to Blaine to the boys at the table and back to his date. Blaine rolled his eyes groggily and continued to stumble along the dance floor in spite of the woman’s protests and the laughter of his drunken cohort.

“She doesn’t want to dance with you, fella. Face it. She doesn’t like you. That’s why she asked you to take her home.” Blaine could see the sweat beading on the puny gnat before him. He shoved him away again and pulled Miss Bell tighter in his arms.

“Hey! Take your hands off her!” Roger roared, again near Blaine’s elbow. Long bony fingers cinched around his right bicep like a vice and tugged at him in desperation. The Napoleonic insistence for control of the situation was almost sad. Captain Graham stopped dancing abruptly and dropped his hold on Miss Bell. She seized her opportunity to escape him as he rotated to face the pathetic, undersized challenger.

The pilot bored his eyes into his opponent’s scarlet face, imagining his own gaze as liquid steel, melting the resolve of the vastly overmatched defender of the woman’s honor. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he spat.

Out of the foggy corner of his vision, Blaine noticed a few scattered patrons, mostly women and their reluctant companions, slipping quietly out the front door. It didn’t faze him. The telegram had roused his buried anger, and the slight to his masculine pride whipped it into a frenzy within him. He clenched and relaxed his fists in turn.