Page 18 of Not Mine to Rescue

The barn was packed from wall to wall. The line for the bathrooms trailed into the parking lot. Or at least it felt that way as I stepped behind a car to take a leak.

The early December wind bit too sharply. Stragglers and drunks clustered around the fire barrels we set up to augment the heaters that were going full blast. I stopped under one of the latter to warm up before going back in. My shift was done. I could go upstairs and stuff some earplugs in and try to sleep. Or I could get drunk. My insides hummed at a fever pitch. I wanted something more than either of those things. I was too wired to sleep, and too sober to ruin the natural buzz zinging through me.

A cute girl wiggled her ass in time with the music that somehow leaked through the stone walls.

I admired it for a few minutes. She peeked over her shoulder, caught me looking, and smiled. Then turned right back around and wiggled it harder. That’s what I needed.

“You got a problem?” The asshole asking wore an insulated North Face jacket zipped up against the cold. He had a black knit cap on his head matching the color of his coat.

My gaze slipped down. It matched his pants and shoes, too. He was a little too rich to be here. As I returned his glare, I assessed my odds. He stood at least three maybe four inches taller than me. Then I assessed his reach—he had me there, too. That left me to gauge his attitude.

There was no contest there. If I couldn’t fuck, I’d take fighting any day. He didn’t stand a chance.

He swept an arm around the jiggling girl. She stopped and turned to see the problem. Her eyes weren’t clear, but far from completely fucked-up. Better, the front curves matched the back.

He’d asked me if I had a problem. That offered me a great opening to fuck with him.

“You got your arm around my girl.” I pointed out.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he spat back.

I tilted my head and squared my shoulders, with my colors on full display. I’d tossed a hoodie on, then slipped the vest over as an ingrained habit. Display the patches with pride was a rule we staked our lives on. “I’m her ride for the night.”

His fingers tightened. “She’s not going anywhere.”

The girl flinched and squirmed free. “Ow. You don’t own me.”

I ignored her and kept my eyes on him. “Who said she’s going anywhere?”

“You. You said—” Realization dawned on his face, and that expression twisted into a scowl. The arm came off, and his fists clenched. “She’s not your girl.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Please, oh please do that…

He changed course. “She’s mine.”

I scanned the girl. “I don’t see a property patch on her.”

“She’s not—I mean I don’t⁠—”

“Yeah, you don’t. That means she gets a choice.” I turned to her. “What do you say? You want to wiggle that ass somewhere more private?”

The gleam in her eye told me she was on board. “Upstairs?” Her eyes flicked to the stone walls that stretched almost forty feet above her head.

I licked my lips. “Yeah. I’ve got a room.”

A hand hit my vest. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

He touched the vest. I placed my hand over his and clamped down, and made sure to hook his pinky. As I tightened my grip, he struggled, but ended up on his knees gasping in pain. “Never touch the vest.”

“You cool, Wombat?” Snake had his keys in his hand.

It was hard to talk normally while pushing my will into making that asshole pay for his mistake. “All good.”

Instead of going to his car, Snake moved closer. He clipped his keys back onto the chain at his waist and stared down at the man kneeling in the dirt. “What’d he do?”

“He touched my vest.”

Snake stretched out his words to mock the asshole sweating at my feet. “Shiiiit. How long were his fingers on it?”