“Don’t let him bite you, ma’am,” the golf man pleaded. “He’s going to kill you. His kind suck the blood out of your body and leave you lying in a dry heap of skin.”
I had just taken a sip of coffee. With golf guy’s words, I almost spit it out.
Timothy slid in beside me on the chair next to mine, no longer hovering above the stranger with the potentially hot missile of food. Instead, Timothy planted his plate on the table and draped his arm over my shoulder. “You okay?” he asked me.
We were in a semi-busy restaurant with a family that included three little children only a few yards away. Couples were mooning over each other at the tables to our right and left, and a young waiter was scurrying over with a full coffee pot, ready to do refills. Although I should have been nervous about the crazy who’d joined us, the dog growls of our two guards, and the strangely cold voice of Timothy as he’d subtly warned the guy away, I was actually feeling remarkably safe. I picked up the dull-edged knife from my place setting, just to be sure, then wondered if a fork was a better weapon.
“There will be no need for that,” Timothy said, removing the implement from my hand. “Mr. Peters was just leaving.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, taking another sip of my coffee, then indicating to the server that I was ready for a fill-up. The waiter poured, and I paused my inquisition.
Our valiant waiter filled all the cups and asked Mr. Peters if he would like a cup of coffee.
“No. He’s not staying,” Timothy said, practically barking at the poor young man. “In fact, Carl,” Timothy said, reading the server’s name tag, “If this man isn’t out of here in one minute, I want the security staff to haul him out. His presence is offensive.”