Page 42 of His Little Stowaway

I like Simon, my driver. I really do, but I think I need to get the hang of driving myself and my woman around.

Just need to remember to put some gas in the tank occasionally.

I’m about to pay for my gas, picking out some flowers for my girl too when I notice the gas station attendant looking past me.

I can hear the faint murmur of raised voices. And not the friendly kind.

Glancing around, I see a younger guy and what is probably his dad with him.

No big deal.

Except they’re making their way towards my car.

Towards Brynn.

I toss a couple of hundred dollar bills on the counter and hearing my own neck crack as I loosen it up, I tell the attendant not to call anyone.

“I’ll handle this. Personally,” I explain.

Glad when he nods silently in agreement.

Brynn’s watching me as I come out. Her worried look turns to a determined one.

These clowns seem to know who she is, and I join some dots pretty fucking fast.

Her old life, the bully from school, and the dad who is gonna marry her mom?

I don’t need a fucking ‘Jackpot’ sign to know what’s what, especially in this neighborhood.

But I can also tell Brynn doesn’t want me to fight all her battles for her.

She’s not the same person she was even a few days ago, and with a little nod, I let her know I’m here.

That I’ve got her back. And her front.

Always.

I have to shake my head a little, unable to believe my ears.

The kind of trash these morons are talking is just begging for someone to teach them some manners.

Mindful of the law as well as Brynn, I tell myself that all I have to do is introduce myself and ask them to apologize, ask ‘em to leave Brynn alone.

That should do it.

The older one seems to have it in for Brynn more than the kid like he’s really got a grudge.

“I hope you didn’t want the last of your so-called ‘stuff’,” he snarls. “I took pleasure in putting it in the trash. Where it belongs.” He grins, with junior whooping in response, clapping his hand on his old man’s back.

“I thought Brad was in college?” Brynn asks, ignoring the older one and making eye contact with the young idiot.

“I… I… I quit that stupid place,” the younger one, spits, scowling and moving a step closer to the car, which is when I have to introduce myself.

“Uh. I’d rather you didn’t go near my car,” I say to both of them, feeling myself tense up and then relax, forcing a smile.

“I’ve just filled it up, see? And well the pair of you look like a couple of turds, and nobody wants turds near their car, do they?” I ask, taking a few confident steps of my own forward as they take one back each.

“Your car?” The younger one exclaims. “That means you’re stuffing Patty fatty the whore?” he grins, unable to help himself as he struggles to find something to tease Brynn about.

“My car. My girl,” I inform them both. “Not something worth teasing someone over, surely?” I ask, straightening my tie, letting the diamond studded tie pin and my Rolex gleam in the sunlight I know is casting a direct beam onto me.

“You’re outta your depth, asshole,” the older one snarls, balling a fist as he takes a lumbering step forward.

“This little bitch is a runaway, a home wrecker, and I’ve a good mind to report you for… for…” he starts to stammer, running out of steam as I smooth my hair back.

“Report me to who, and for what?” I ask. “Assault? Because I’m afraid you’ll have to go first. I’m a little funny like that, see,” I tell them both.

Brynn’s hands are gripping the edge of the window of my car. Her eyes are pleading with mine now not to do anything stupid.

She moves to get out but I order her to stay in the car.

“Yeah,” snarls the younger of the two turds. “Stay in the car on your leash… like a good little whore, Paddy…” he taunts her in his weird jock sing-song voice.

I feel my hand wanting to curl into a fist, to just take care of this once and for all, but I know that’s not wise.

I can’t jeopardize what Brynn and I have now, but I won’t just stand here and listen to these bozos trash talk about her either.

“The hell with this,” cries the older, heavy set man, lunging at me with a fierce look.

He’s no featherweight either. Junior is the younger, athletic version of the same genetics.

Big up top and pretty quick, but no real thought involved.

I only have to take a single step to one side and the eldest of the pair charges headfirst into an overhanging steel girder on the back of a parked truck.

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