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“Yes?” I cross my arms over my chest and stare, letting him know I don’t care for his tone of voice.
“Did you tell your assistant to come here?” he snarls.
Fuck him. He is one snotty comment away from getting a fist to his perfectly rugged, uptight face.
“I did. I need to work, Mitch. She brings me my important documents, we go over my schedule, and do other things relevant to my livelihood.”
That dark head of hair drops and I watch Mitch’s broad shoulders move up and down as he huffs, trying to rein in his anger.
“Is that a problem, Utah?” I challenge.
“Is it a problem?” Mitch barks out a very unamused laugh. “Yeah, it’s a problem.” He lifts his head to stare at me, stormy grey eyes meeting mine. “The stalker could follow her right to you. To my front door! You said you would do what I tell you to!” Mitch shouts.
I flush with embarrassment at my now obvious mistake, but my spine still prickles with fury. “You never said my assistant couldn’t come over! How the hell was I supposed to know?”
The way Mitch is acting reminds me of how I felt when my dad would show his disappointment for being saddled with such a pussy for a son. How he would belittle me every chance he got.
“Stop spending so much time diddling your guitar, Gavin!”
“Real men join the armed forces, son! You’re such a disappointment. Surfing and music aren’t going to pay the bills.”
“Drop and give me twenty! Now! If you weren’t such a fag, I wouldn’t have to do this to turn you into a man!”
“Do I need to get you a girl, Gavin? You can’t get laid on your own?”
“Christ,” Mitch grumbles. “Use your head, Gavin! That’s all I’m asking!”
Mitch’s hand darts towards me in a way that reminds me of my dad reaching out to backhand me across the face. My fight or flight instincts kick in and, unfortunately for Mitch, fight wins.
Lightning fast, I grab his arm, digging my fingers into the hollow space between the tendons just below his elbow and squeeze. Mitch yelps in pain and goes down to his knees immediately. I lower myself with him, not wanting to let go and give him a chance to fight back. The man can fight, of that I have no doubt.
“What. The. Hell.” He gasps between heavy, strained breaths.
“Don’t ever try to hit me,” I growl, squeezing harder.
“Jesus, Gavin. I was—” he groans in pain, “reaching for my drink.”
“What?” I twist my neck up. Sure enough, on the shelf next to where I was standing is an open bottle of beer.
I let go of his arm and jump back.
“Oh my god. I’m sorry, Mitch,” I sputter. He staggers to his feet while I spin around to fill a dishtowel with ice. “You’ll need to put this on your arm.” I turn to face him and wince. “It’s going to hurt for a few days.”
“Holy—” Mitch rubs his forearm and snatches the icepack, scowling. “Where did you learn that?”
I feel my face and ears heat up. “I took martial arts when the band first got together. My teacher showed me how to use pressure points to prevent a fight or stop someone larger than you.”
Mitch balances the icepack on his arm and braces it on his chest so he can use his free hand to swig his beer. “Why?”
“Why?” I ask, scrunching up my face.
Despite the large amount of pain he’s sure to be feeling, along with the accompanying sharp buzz in the nerve I pinched, Mitch smiles.
“Yeah, why? Why did you take martial arts?”
“Oh.” I duck my head, embarrassed. “Can we sit?”
“Sure.” Mitch heads for the living room and collapses onto the large sectional sofa. Damn, busted knee and now a seriously bruised nerve—being around me is not good for Mitch’s health.
