When I was younger and went to clubs, we smoked. Now that’s banned. At most places in my Blue Phoenix life, this makes no difference—I’ll smoke anyway, but here I can’t. Shaking my head, I disappear out of the bar to indulge the one vice I’ve not weaned myself off yet. So? I can’t stop every drug in the space of three months.
I head to the back of the club, staying to the shadows and edging around the sweaty crowd. Security knows who I am; they were pre-warned in case I attracted attention. No hassle from anyone so far and the niggling feeling I’m a ‘has-been’ edges into my thoughts. I’m paranoid—I don’t fall from top of the world into nothing. Not Jem Jones. No, the location is the reason I look like just another grungy dude in the corner. Suits me.
I duck out through the room filled with empty crates and fresh kegs, then through the propped open fire door. The warmth of the evening surprises me but you can never tell with English summers—pissing it down one minute, bright, sunny days the next. I pull the pack of cigs from my pocket and light one, gratefully inhaling the nicotine. Good thing I can’t do this by the bar—reckon I’d have ordered a beer by now. Filling my lungs with the harsh smoke, I close my eyes and rest my head against the cool bricks. The nicotine buzzes into my system. Yeah, I’ll give up. Eventually.
A scuffling sound and a woman’s voice alerts me. The alleyway is narrow, brick walls overhanging the space between, and the sound carries from around the corner.
“I fucking saw you, you stupid bitch!” The man’s voice alerts me. I have zero tolerance for this shit thrown at women. Peeling myself from the wall, I approach the corner.
A woman’s voice, low and placating, travels toward me, and I quietly step out from my spot.
And see red.
Literally, because against the wall, partially illuminated by the car park streetlight, is a girl with red hair. What makes me see red in the other sense—of wanting to rip the fucker’s head off—is a man with his hands around the girl’s throat, pressing her into the wall. The worst part is she isn’t fighting back.
The man slams the girl’s head against the bricks and trips a primal anger in my brain. Striding towards him, I yank the fucker by the back of his jacket, and he loosens his grip in surprise. The guy draws himself to his full height, but he’s still a few inches shorter than me. His close-cropped hair, and the muscles barely covered by his T-shirt suggest he works out. A lot.
“What the fuck?” he growls.
“Was gonna ask you the same thing,” I say in a low voice.
“I’m fine.” The girl’s panicked voice confuses me, as if my interference isn’t wanted.
I stare back at the girl from the bar, but she rubs her head, keeps her gaze to the floor, and doesn’t meet mine. “A guy has his hands around your throat and you say you’re fine?”
“None of your fucking business, mate.” The guy curls his hand around the girl’s arm and she winces.
Assault charge. Do not get yourself an assault charge. I close my eyes and fight the urge to smash my fist into his face. My history with chicks isn’t the best, but I sure as hell never beat a woman.
“Please leave us alone,” says the girl quietly.
I open my eyes and meet hers, where the lost soul behind them pleads with me not to make things worse.
“Hands off her and I’ll walk away,” I growl at the guy.
He snorts and pulls his hand away so she stumbles, and then raises them to me in a gesture of surrender. The red-haired girl steps back and disappears through the nearby fire exit before I can ask if she’s okay.
The asshole and me stand off against each other for a moment. He’s drunk, eyes not focused on me properly. Man, he’d be so easy to fight. I open and close my fist, fighting down the Jem who’d solve things without words. Then I turn away, taking a drag from my cigarette. If the dickhead hits me first, I’ll have an excuse.
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, he doesn’t. When I resume my position against the wall to finish my smoke, I glance over and he’s gone.
Not my problem.