Making the Cut by SD Hildreth Page B

from his nose. Instinctively, I reached under the bar, grabbed a clean towel, and yelled at Otis.
    “Here!”
    As he turned my direction, I threw him the folded towel. He nodded his head sharply, and handed the towel to Baldy . Shocked at the immediate and effortless ending of the fight, I turned toward Axton.
    “So, if I’d have told you to fuck off and let them go at it , what would you have done? This is your bar after all,” he asked in a sarcastic tone.
    “Well, when people fight in here, I have three options, let ‘em fight, call the cops, or,” I paused and reached under the bar and pulled my Glock from my purse.
    “This,” I twisted my wrist for him to admire the pistol, and slipped it back under the bar.
    “Letting them fight isn’t a real good option, there’s still regular customers in here. It would make me look incompetent and someone might get hurt or killed. And, if someone got killed the cops would come. For what it’s worth, I hate cops. So, that brings me to option two, calling the cops. That’s an option , but not one I want to use. Generally, I tell people to pick, call the cops or stop fucking fighting. Realistically, I’m not pulling the pistol. Not ever. Well, unless someone’s trying to rob me or someone else in here,” I paused and waited for him to respond.
    “Model 17?” he asked.
    I scrunched my brow and stared, “Huh?”
    “Your pistol. Glock model 17. It’s a nine millimeter, 4 th generation. Must be pretty new,” he nodded.
    “Oh yeah, it’s a Model 17. I got it about eighteen months ago when I got my concealed carry permit,” I bragged.
    “Nice. Well,” he paused, reached for the rubber band, and snapped it against his wrist.
    What the fuck with the rubber band?
    “Avery, what night’s do you grace the world with your presence here?” he asked.
    Shocked at the fact he asked the question, I considered my unpredictable schedule while I mentally formed my response. I wondered why he would ask if he wasn’t interested?
    He wouldn’t.
    “Tuesday’s, Thursday’s and Saturday’s, almost always. It’s hard to say, he changes our schedules all the time. And I’ve got finals coming up, so it’s anybody’s guess here real quick,” I shrugged.
    “Finals, huh? College girl? I would have guessed you a little older.”
    “Nope, senior. Criminal Justice, go figure,” I smiled.
    “Wichita State?” he asked.
    “Nope. Southwestern College, down in Winfield.”
    “Winfield, huh?” he grinned.
    “Yeah, Winfield. You know where it is?”
    “Never heard of the place,” he shook his head, “I tell ya what, I’ll come in next week. If you’re here, I’ll see ya,” he nodded.
    I considered giving him my phone number and decided against it. There’s a fine line between acting interested and being a stalker . I definitely had stalker tendencies, and had every intention of stalking Axton, but I didn’t want him to realize it.
    “Sounds good,” I said.
    So, I guess this is where you leave, and I spend all of next week sick to my stomach trying to decide what to wear to work, taking water pills by the dozen so I can shed weight, and feeling like I’m fat no matter what, right?
    He glanced toward Otis.
    “Otis, have ‘em saddle up,” he hollered.
    Yep. Women’s intuition.
    As much as I wanted to stay and get a few more sentences in, I knew it was time I changed up my game. I hadn’t been successful at picking up a man in several years. Not a meaningful one, anyway. I reached under the bar, picked up another clean towel, and walked toward the other end of the bar without saying a word. It was far too late for me to try the hard to get routine, but I could act less interested than I truly was. Sometimes, less is more.
    I watched the men walk outside in small groups and a few individually. In many respects, it felt as if they had been in the bar for the entire night, if not more. In reality, they had been in the bar roughly thirty minutes. After almost all of the