On a normal day, with my head in the game, I could have easily had the asshole on his back. But I have no strategy and no skill today. All I have is grief and heartache.
I’m just throwing my fists at this point and hoping they’ll make contact. Most of the time I miss, and the rest of the time, I get fucking slayed.
Sometime later, I’m on the ground. Fists and elbows and boots and Polish curses all raining hell down on me.
But the pain feels good.
Keep fucking coming, I growl silently as blood pools in my mouth. Make it fucking hurt.
It does that. Keeps coming. Keeps hurting.
…until, suddenly, it stops.
I spit the blood from my mouth and glance up, wondering why the kicks to my gut have halted.
The two men standing above me are a little blurry, given that my head just got rung like a bell and I’ve had enough beer to drown an elephant.
I can make out Eagle Tat, but he’s got his back to me now, his attention pulled in another direction.
This one is taller, lean but well-built. He looks young. My age, give or take. But there’s a confidence about him that resonates with me.
Except, where my confidence is more sarcastic and quippy, his is dark and calculated.
“This ain’t your business,” Eagle Tat is saying with clear agitation. He glances down at me like he’s raring to finish what I started.
“I’m making it my business,” the younger guy replies coolly. His voice is deep and commanding. Natural authority radiates from him.
I push myself off the floor and clamber to my feet. My whole body is aching, but I welcome the physical pain. It’s precisely the distraction I was after.
“Fuck off now,” the new guy snarls.
Eagle Tattoo growls unpleasantly. But to my amazement, he turns and leaves. He doesn’t even glance back in my direction.
I turn to the dark-haired man in front of me. I was right in assuming he’s young. And I was right about the confidence, too.
He’s just got something too him. An element of shadow shimmering below the surface.
Poor bastard looks awfully serious, though. Reminds me of Sean in some ways. Like the weight of the whole damn world rests on his shoulders.
“My hero,” I swoon sarcastically. I spit more blood on the ground.
The dark-haired man stares at me for a moment. Then his face splits into an amused smile, and I can tell I’ve taken him by surprise.
His features don’t look typically American. In fact, there’s very little about him that smacks of this country.
“You’re an idiot,” he informs me matter-of-factly.
I shrug. “That’s neither the first time nor the worst time someone’s called me that.”
“I believe you. Come on.”
I didn’t expect an invitation, but what the fuck else do I have to do?
I follow him outside the pub. There’s an alleyway a few doors down from the pub and we turn into it.
It’s fucking huge. But at least it’s quiet. Quiet enough that the pounding in my head abates ever-so-slightly.
I glance around and then at the dark-haired guy in front of me. “Listen, I know I called you my hero and everything,” I begin. “And I’m flattered that you came to my rescue. Really, I am. But I’m not into guys. Although, if I were—which, as we established, I’m not—you’d definitely be my type. This whole ‘dark-and-dangerous’ thing you’ve got going on really works for y—”