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d. One was off to the side not moving. The other was being kicked by two men still on their feet.
"Get up on your knees," one of the men snarled. "That's something a cocksucker should know all about. I'm going to piss on your faggoty ass like I did your fancy car, and then I might let you live. "
Thomas' fist took him in the kidney. The man stumbled, trying to turn, but Thomas followed it with an uppercut that knocked his head back and took him clean off his feet, slamming him down on his back. Roaring his fury, Thomas yanked him back to his feet and drove him into the restaurant wall, knocking the metal trashcans out of his path.
They crashed into the outdoor light mounted by the kitchen door, breaking the bulb and casing, eliminating all but the cloud-covered moonlight. The other man stumbled after them. Thomas drove his knee hard into his opponent's groin to ensure he'd be out of commission a moment longer and spun. Grabbing up a trash can lid, he met the other man with it, thrusting upward to knock his teeth together onto his tongue, resulting in a spurt of blood. Another punch pushed the man back.
Thomas whirled, ducked under the strike of the man who'd scrambled back to his feet behind him. Grabbing him by the shirtfront, he slung him to the ground, bowling him into the legs of the other man trying to charge forward again. The man stumbled over his fallen comrade, but managed to lunge over him.
Thomas landed a kick in the prone man's midsection to keep him on the ground and hammered at the other one's face with a fast series of jabs, hearing the satisfying break of cartilage from his nose and a cry of pain. He fell back, holding his face.
When the man on the ground grabbed his jeans' cuff, Thomas stomped on his chest, put his foot to his throat.
"Stop it. Stop. Please, stop. " It was the young waitress, who'd come at a run. "Stop, that's my brother. "
Fists clenched, Thomas glanced over at her. Even in the semidarkness, the fury in his snapping dark eyes apparently warned her to stay back. He kept his attention on his opponents, but they were done. The third man seemed mostly unconscious still, though groaning a bit. Marcus' work.
The other man was on his knees, cupping his gushing nose. The brother she was defending was curled up like a shrimp and staring up at him through a swollen eye.
His lip was bloody, his breath labored from Thomas' pressure on his throat.
"No. It's a piece of shit that calls itself your brother. " Removing his foot, Thomas gave the man a disgusted shove with it that rolled him over on his back, his arms flopping out.
The broken shards of brown glass gleaming dully in the fitful moonlight and the jagged-edged bottle lying near them told Thomas why Marcus had likely focused on disarming the unconscious man first. Which in turn had put him at the mercy of the two men fighting with just their fists.
Thomas gave them one last glance and turned his attention to Marcus. He'd made it to one knee, but wavered there, his long fingers tented on the ground on one side to balance him, the other hand holding his ribs, his head down.
"Here, hold on. . . " Thomas got to him, knelt to take the bracing hand and guide Marcus' arm up over his shoulders, reaching out to touch Marcus' jaw. "C'mon, look at me. Let's see. Oh, holy Christ. "
They'd cut him with a bottle. Marcus' beautiful face. His perfect, beautiful face, laid open from the high point of his cheekbone and across his nose to his jaw. The lower half of his face was wet with blood. Bits of gravel were in the gash. His clothes were torn and dirty.
Then Thomas noticed the blood soaking his shirt and waistband. "Jesus. " He had his hands there and was pulling it away to see before Marcus could stop him. The bottle jab had cut him just below the hip bone and made it to the pubic area, cutting through the slacks and underwear beneath. Fortunately, it appeared to be a shallow strike.
"He was trying to cut my dick off," Marcus coughed. "Said I didn't need it. Lucky for you I'm quick. "
The murderous rage that had settled into an uneasy simmer flared, a fuel for hellfire. Thomas was up and ready to go another round, but Marcus caught his shirtfront, held on. "No," he said, spitting a mouthful of blood. "Enough. " He wouldn't accept Thomas' help to rise, making it to his feet on his own, but Thomas could feel the pain vibrating off his stubborn, prideful silhouette.
"Where the hell did you come from, man? You don't fight like no queer. " The brother spoke. He was sitting up now, helped to an upright position by his sister who was crouched by him, her mouth tight. The man with the broken nose was staying far back, almost lost in the darkness, but Thomas kept a watchful eye on him.
"North Carolina. " As Thomas stepped forward, he was satisfied to see them all shrink back as if he were much closer. "Where I learned exactly how to field dress a deer, so cutting you into chunks and feeding them into the pond back here is sounding pretty good. What the hell is wrong with you? What makes you so fucking special? You could have killed him. "
"Pet. " Marcus spoke, stiffly lurching up next to him. "Come on. He's not worth it, and I need stitches. "
"Should I. . . can I call an ambulance?" The manager had come out and obviously was wavering between support of his regulars and the possibility of involvement in a lawsuit. He had a flashlight, and swept the ground with it, briefly hitting their faces. He lingered on Marcus' with a gasp and muttered curse before Marcus turned away.
Thomas shifted in front of him, compelling the manager to lower the beam.
"No," Marcus said emphatically before Thomas could respond. "We'll stop somewhere and get them to stitch this up. " He started to move forward at a careful hobble.
The waitress' brother was getting up. She, like Thomas, tried to help her sibling and was shaken off.
Marcus stopped when he was even with the man and looked in his direction, six feet between them. It seemed to Thomas he was detachedly studying his battered features. "It's the shy, quiet ones you have to watch," Marcus advised, briefly looking toward Thomas, then back at his opponent. "Was it worth it to you?" The man spat blood on the ground.
"Look at me. " Marcus snarled.
The man's gaze shot to him in reaction. In that moment, Marcus lunged forward.
The manager's light flashed up at the waitress' startled scream. Thomas saw in an instant that Marcus had refused help and his movements had been so careful and stiff because he'd been holding the broken bottle close against his side.
