My god, she’s adorable. Even in the midst of a dimly lit house party, the blue of her eyes is as clear as day. I need to get some one-on-one time with her. I need to get her some place that isn’t blasting Ke$ha, not only for my own sanity but for the sake of carrying on a conversation without straining something.
“Hey Erin, do you want to step out for a cigarette?” I yell over the din.
“Sure, as long as I can bum one.” She puts on a coy smile. “I ran out earlier today and haven’t had the time to get a new pack.”
No need for excuses.
“Yeah, of course,” I say, “the less I smoke the better.”
I nod my head in the direction of the back door and start walking towards the kitchen, assuming/hoping that she’s close behind. As I weave through the crowd, I feel her grab my hand. I know it’s just to keep from losing me in the maze of our inebriated peers, but I can’t ignore the sudden burst of light in my chest. We find ourselves stalled in the doorway leading outside because a pair of muscled up meatheads decided to block our path and engage in conversation. They’re sporting interchangeable button-down shirts two sizes too small, but while the guy on the left has a fake tan and stud earrings, the one on the right is wearing enough hair gel to choke a small child. I glance back at Erin and arch my eyes across my brow. I turn back to the two gentlemen and clear my throat, preparing to excuse the two of us for interrupting their conversation.
“Hey, douche bags,” Erin’s squeaky voice flies over my shoulder. I freeze, unsure of who she’s talking to or why they’ve earned such a title. I look back at Erin, assess her line of sight, and realize that she’s attempting to get the attention of the guys blocking our path. They don’t notice, so she speaks up.
“Hey! Douche bags!”
Their conversation halts and their attention shifts in our direction. “What?” is all that their testosterone-addled brains can manage to push through their mouths.
As my mind races to catch up with the unfolding altercation, I stand stock still and silent like I’m staring into a pair of high beams. In contrast, my 110 lb. associate seems to have no problem finding her words.
“Get the fuck out of the way.” Her mousy voice makes the words almost comical. As the eyes of the guy with the ungodly amount of hair gel begin to narrow, I snap out of it.
“Come on now, Erin,” I say with a forced laugh, “there’s no need for hostility.” Yeah, especially when I’m the one who will be dealing with these guys should this confrontation turn physical. “Be nice.”
I know I sound like a pussy, but I really don’t feel like getting my ass kicked tonight.
“Hey pal,” Hair Gel says pointing a threatening finger at me, “you better tell that bitch to shut up.” I open my mouth to tell him to take it easy and that she’s just drunk, but once again, Erin beats me on the draw.
“Oooh, what are you gonna do, roofie me? Why don’t you kill yourself, you date-raping retard?”
Ho-ly shit…
Hair Gel hands his orange-skinned friend his beer and steps within a few inches of us. “Fuck you, you stupid slut!”
Now he’s shouting. Great. There’s nothing like talking down an alcohol-induced asshole. I put both hands up to his chest, still trying to defuse the situation, but this guy’s toxically altered brain is obviously transmitting nothing but red, because he quickly knocks me aside. Erin opens her mouth to return his sentiment, but before she can fully articulate the thought, he shoves her back into the crowd.
I turn just in time to see Erin fall, and now, all I can see is red. My right hand tightens into a fist before I can form a clear thought. While Erin is stumbling back, reaching for random party-goers to steady herself, I’m shifting all weight to my right foot and cocking back my arm. A split second after, I plant my left leg and whip my torso around with as much torque as my Irish temper can render. The knuckles of my middle, ring, and pinky fingers connect squarely with Hair Gel’s jaw, creating two identical shockwaves: one travelling through his face, and the other back down my arm.
Hair Gel’s legs give out and he crumples to the floor while I struggle to regain my center of gravity. Unfortunately for me, Fake Tan’s reflexes are even quicker than mine, because he immediately throws a right cross to my face. Fortunately for me, he doesn’t strike with much force. His fist catches me just below my left eye, shutting down every brain system except the one that processes pain: not quite a knockout punch, but enough to feel like a fastball to the cheek.
Thankfully, Fake Tan either decides I’ve been properly punished or is held back by a merciful bystander. I can’t say for sure, because as soon as I regain my senses, I find myself staring up into a pair of crystal blue eyes hanging over an ear-to-ear grin.
I flex my right hand and then stretch my jaw in a crude attempt to assess the damage. “Enjoyed that, did you?”
“Hell yeah!” Erin shouts as her eyes fly open. “I’ve never seen anyone get punched in the face before, let alone two people. It was crazy! Ahhh.” Erin draws out her last inarticulate syllable before breaking into hysterical laughter, a reaction at which I can’t help but smile.
It’s amazing. I can’t even be upset with this girl. All I can do is get off the floor and shake my head in disapproval. “You’ve got a couple screws loose. You know that, right?”
“A couple?” she says helping me up. “More like five.” I fight off a sheepish smirk and stare down at my throbbing hand. “So, how’s your face?”
“Eh, I don’t think it’s anything serious,” I say as I test the budding bruise on my cheek. “I may have broken my hand, though.”
“Aw, bummer brah,” Erin holds her Cheshire grin. A few moments pass in silence, in which I become uncomfortable under her persistent stare and decide to glance around the room, as if I’m interested in anything else besides her.
“Well,” she says, and stops her sentence there.
“Well, what?”
She rolls her eyes and giggles before nodding to the back door. “How about that smoke?”