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My bid registered and I sat back down. With a smug sense of self-satisfaction, I crossed my arms and relaxed back in my chair, shooting one final dagger into my opponent from across the room.
On stage, the auctioneer hesitated, stumbling for a moment before offering an opportunity to Mr. Douche in the Second Row to counter.
After a lengthy stare down, he shrugged and lay his paddle down in his lap.
The auctioneer called my number as the winner. After a generous smattering of applause, I got out of my seat and took my leave. I wasn't interested in any of the other items in the auction. I was eager to sign the paperwork and arrange transportation for the F-4 back to the museum.
My plane.
Nearly an hour later, with the deal wrapped up, I headed out of the event, back to my truck in the parking lot. The sun was sinking, and I was eager to get out on the town and celebrate my victory. After the paperwork had been finished, I’d looked around for the blonde and brunette but they were nowhere to be seen. It was a disappointment, but I knew downtown L.A. had more hotties per block than any other city in the world. It wouldn’t take me long to find entertainment.
As I walked across the lot, I searched on my phone, debating which bar I wanted to hit up first. It had been a while since I’d been in L.A., and I wasn’t sure which were the current hot spots. I glanced up from the screen to make sure I was headed in the right direction, and I heard my name called out from across the parking lot. I turned in the direction of the voice and saw Mr. Douche from the Second Row stalking toward me.
I grinned at his approach. "Come to congratulate me?"
"Not quite," he sneered.
I shrugged. "Well, then I gotta say, I'm not all that interested. I have some celebrating to get to."
"Listen, asshole, I don't know who you are or who you think you are, and I don't care. But I'm Henry fucking O'Keefe and the plane is mine."
I wanted to laugh at his pompous, puffed up, look-at-me-I'm-a-pretty-rich-boy, routine. I didn't give two shits who he was or who he thought he was. The plane was mine and I had paperwork to show for it. Paperwork, which I held up in front of him. "I gotta say man, it looks like my name’s on here, not yours. Why don't you take it like a man and move on with your life?"
I sidestepped him and shoved into his shoulder for added emphasis as I made my way over to my truck. I was reaching into my pocket for my keys when a hand grabbed at the back of my collar and pulled me down.
Before I fully lost my balance, I swung around with a right hook, and connected with the side of Mr. Henry fuckin’ O’Keefe’s face. He grunted at the impact and as he snapped back, a string of expletives flowed from his mouth. He tried to grab at me, but I ducked easily just before he could get his hands on me.
"Man, I'm telling you, you don't wanna fuck with me."
Ignoring my warning, he struck out again, this time aiming for my gut. With razor-sharp reflexes, I grabbed his arm, twisted it around behind his back, and held it, with just enough pressure, that one minor tweak would be all it would take to break his arm. I’d been trained well.
"Back off," I growled, releasing him, and giving him a hard shove in the back to put some distance between us. Rage was radiating from him and I knew the fight was likely far from over.
He might have cash in the bank, but his head was obviously empty.
As predicted, he took another wild swing at me. This time I knocked him to the ground. Clearly he needed a more forceful warning.
Before I could give him a kick to the ribs that would be hard enough to serve as a little reminder for the next two weeks not to fuck with me, I was grabbed and held back by a strong set of arms.
"Hey, get off me man," I yelled over my shoulder to the newcomer that had entered the fray.
The hands holding me relaxed and I spun around to find myself face to face with a stranger. “Who the hell are you? His bodyguard?"
The strangers gaze drifted down to Mr. Douche from the Second Row, his eyes fierce and dark, and then he shook his head. "Nah, man. Not a bodyguard. Just a citizen looking to keep everybody safe."
"Some kind of fuckin’ Superman then, huh?" I threw back at him.
He crossed his arms and I couldn't help but notice the tail end of a tattoo on his upper arm, right where his bicep bulged out from underneath his tight T-shirt. "Is that a trident? You a SEAL?"
