The 7th Tarot Card by Valerie Clay Read Free Book Online

eavesdropping on our conversation.
    “Hello, ladies, why don’t you share a table with us?” one of the men offered. Julie turned to them, gave them a courteous but clearly disinterested smile and said “No, thanks.”
    The taller of the two men, a beefy guy with a large nose and salt-and-pepper hair—heavy on the salt—wouldn’t take no for an answer. He stood up and approached us. “Aw, come on. We’ve got two extra chairs at our table. Let us buy you some lunch and then if you like, we can all go for a ride on my boat. It’s a beauty—forty-two-footer with two bathrooms and two bedrooms.”
    With the mention of the bedrooms, his companion in a blue shirt whooped in a liquored-up, college boy sort of way, then got to his feet and joined us.
    “ I said, no thank you ,” Julie repeated unsmiling.
    Obviously offended, the first guy frowned. “What’s the matter? You think you’re too good for us?” In an aggressive move, he stepped closer and leaned down into Julie until they were inches apart.
    I didn ’t like where this was headed, and warned him, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
    “ Why not?” he said, his eyes on Julie.
    “ Because Colonel Julie here will mop the floor with you.”
    “ Colonel Julie,” blue shirt guy said smirking. “Well, isn’t that cute. How’d she get that little nickname?”
    I glared at him. “Mostly because she’s a United States Army Colonel, and her name is Julie.”
    “ Well, what’s she the Colonel of,” big nose asked, “makeup and hairdos?” With that, he reached out and squeezed Julie’s upper arm with his thick fingers. “Doesn’t feel all that tough to me.”
    Nervously, I glanced sideways at Julie, and took a step backwards out of harm’s way. Julie ripped her arm from his grip, grabbed his thumb and bent it backwards until it seemed close to breaking. With narrowed eyes she said, “Keep your freakin’ hands off me, jackass.”
    As the big guy yelped in surprise, I looked for the bartender, but he stood at the far end of the elongated bar, deep in discussion with one of the patrons. Looked like he was doing his bartender/psychologist thing. With a loud plop, Julie dropped her red purse onto the stool I’d just vacated, let go of the guy’s thumb and took a defiant stance. Around us, people began to stare.
    I warned the man again . “You need to back off. Come on, Julie, let’s get out of here.”
    Before she could deliver a nother, more persuasive strike, I grabbed her arm and purse, and gently pulled her away. Fortunately Julie capitulated and we left the café without any carnage.
    For a moment there, I was afraid we were going to have a repeat of t he Fort Sam incident. One balmy evening several years ago, during a visit with Julie in San Antonio, she and I were at a club having a few drinks. A belligerent serviceman came on too strong, and Julie politely told him she wasn’t interested. A couple of other soldiers who knew Julie, warned him to cool it and move on for his own good. Apparently he didn’t take them seriously because he became even more determined in his pursuit. We decided to leave, but when we turned our backs, the fool reached out and grabbed Julie’s caboose. In the blink of an eye, she swung around with a sharp kick, planting her foot squarely into his solar plexus. He folded like a cheap chair and dropped to the floor. His buddies tried to help him up, but he couldn’t move. Later when I complimented her on her swift response, she said that it was just instinctive; several years of martial arts training just took over. Self-defense courses for women should be a high school graduation requirement.
    “ Maybe I overreacted. Do you think I overreacted? Was I too harsh?” Julie asked as we walked through the cavernous parking garage.
    I shook my head. “The guy was a jerk. Hopefully he’ll think twice before harassing women in bars again.”
    “ So what do you want to do now?” she asked when we reached my