That was the moment Victor decided Curtis was deliberately disrespecting him.
He had been looking for an excuse to assert control all evening.
Now he believed he had found one.
When Victor raised his hand again, Curtis did not retreat immediately.
He kept his hands open, elbows close to his body, and feet positioned so that he would not stumble backward into the table behind him.
It was not a fighting stance.
It was a way of staying balanced without appearing aggressive.
"Don't," Curtis said.
Victor laughed.
"What are you going to do?"
Curtis said nothing.
The question was not really a question. Victor wanted a response he could interpret as a challenge.
If Curtis threatened him, Victor could claim self-defense.
If Curtis shoved him, Victor could point to the cameras and say the trucker attacked first.
If Curtis swung, the entire situation could be transformed into the kind of story Victor preferred telling.
But Curtis had no interest in giving him that story.
"You're making a mistake," Curtis said quietly.
Victor's smile widened.
"That's what people like you always say."
Dylan Mercer shifted behind him.
"Coach, maybe we should justโ"
Victor raised one hand without looking back.
"Stay out of it."
The young man stopped speaking.
Curtis noticed the movement.
He also noticed Aaron Pike looking toward the restaurant staff. Aaron seemed uncomfortable. He had not joined the group to watch somebody get hit.
The waitress approached cautiously.
"Sir, can I help you?"
Victor turned toward her.
"Yes. I need you to tell this man to leave."
The waitress looked at Curtis, then at the broken plate beneath the booth.
"Is there a problem?"
"He's refusing to move."
"He's a paying customer," she said.
Victor's face hardened.
"And I'm telling you that I don't want him here."
The waitress glanced toward the counter.
"That's not reallyโ"
Victor stepped toward her.
"Do you know who I am?"
She shook her head.
"Should I?"
One of the students made a small choking sound, as though he had swallowed a laugh.
Victor turned sharply.
"What's funny?"
The student lowered his eyes.
Curtis watched the waitress's hands tremble slightly as she held her order pad.
He knew that expression.
It was the look of someone trying to decide whether doing the right thing would create a problem she would have to face alone.
He had seen it in junior soldiers, frightened witnesses, and people who found themselves standing between a powerful person and someone with less power.
He did not want the waitress hurt because of him.
"Ma'am," he said, "I'm fine. Just give us a little space."
She looked at him.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
Victor seized the opportunity.
"See? He knows he needs to leave."
Curtis turned toward him.
"That's not what I said."
Victor moved closer again.
The smell of alcohol was stronger now.
"Listen to me. You're going to stand up, walk out, and stop making this difficult."
Curtis's voice remained level.
"I already stood up because you pulled me by my shirt."
Victor glanced down.
Only then did he seem to register that his hand was still gripping Curtis's collar.
He released it with a short shove.
"Don't tell me what I did."
Curtis straightened his shirt.
"Then stop doing it."
The slap followed.
It landed across Curtis's left cheek, turning his face toward the window.
The sound seemed louder than the movement itself.
The little girl near the coffee counter began crying.
Her father stood up immediately and pulled her close.
A woman at a nearby table gasped.
Somebody said, "Oh, man."
Another voice laughed.
Victor looked around as though he expected applause.
Instead, he saw several people holding phones.
For the first time, his confidence faltered.
Not because he had hit Curtis.
Because people had seen him do it.
Curtis tasted blood where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek.
He moved his tongue carefully and swallowed.
His face burned.
He could hear the rain against the windows and the hum of the restaurant's refrigerator behind the counter.
The old calculation in his mind continued.
Victor stood within arm's reach.
Dylan was just behind him.
Another student had moved to the side, partly blocking the aisle.
The waitress was near the coffee counter.
The little girl was crying.
There were customers on both sides of the booth.
Curtis could have moved.
He could have pushed Victor away, controlled his wrist, or taken him to the floor.
He knew how quickly a confrontation could change once a person committed to physical contact.
He also knew that even a technically clean defensive movement could end with somebody's head striking a table.
A room full of hard surfaces was a dangerous place to prove a point.
So Curtis did not strike.
He looked directly at Victor.
"You're done," he said.
Victor's eyebrows rose.
"Excuse me?"
"You've hit me. Let the staff call the police."
Victor stared at him.
Then he laughed.
"You're going to call the police?"
"No. They can."
Victor looked toward the students.
"Somebody get this guy outside."
Dylan hesitated.
"Coach, he didn't do anything."
The words were quiet, but they carried.
Victor turned.
"What did you say?"
Dylan swallowed.
"I said he didn't do anything."
The dining room had become so quiet that the waitress could hear the ice machine behind the counter.
Victor stepped toward Dylan.