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Thankfully, she had been a sweet girl. Like some part of her recognized that I was there to help her, to get her out of there, so she didn’t struggle as I crushed her to my chest and darted across the space and back toward the door.
I couldn’t tell at that point if the pounding I heard was footsteps following behind, or my own damn heartbeat. All I knew was I was not going to let this sweet girl down.
By the time I got to my car and could slow down, she was nudging her wet nose under the ski cap to lick my sweaty neck, prompting me to balance her carefully, then reach up to yank off the cap.
And that was when I knew I was caught.
Because someone called out to me.
He called me an asshole, to be exact.
Which was rich coming from a dog fight enthusiast. AKA the scummiest scum on the earth, standing there shoulder-to-shoulder with rapists and pedophiles. The lowest of the low of human evil.
Why was it, though, that the douchiest of douchebags tended to be kind of hot? Like what was the universe thinking when it made those kinds of decisions?
Here, you get all the kind-hearted goodness the world has to offer. All the sugar and honey. But you will have completely asymmetrical features and really bad acne. Oh, and you, sir, will be drop-dead fucking gorgeous, but be a wife-beater and thief.
Really, what was that about?
But, yeah, this guy?
He was hot.
Dare I even say it—mega hot.
Yes, mega.
I was pretty sure I had only met three mega-hot guys in my life.
But this dude made it four.
He was tall and fit with a ton of tattoos, a short beard, somewhat dark hair that he had frosted. Which shouldn’t have looked so good, but did, damnit.
It was all there.
The face structure. The nose ring that I probably wouldn’t have found half as sexy on any other nose. The dark, stormy blue eyes.
It was all, you know, working for him.
The asshole.
Against my chest, my little girl whimpered, making me squeeze her tighter as I insisted that he was not going to take her back to that fighting ring.
I mean, yeah, objectively, he might be the clear winner in any sort of altercation.
He looked like he enjoyed a workout a few times a week.
Me? Well, I had that pale skin thing going for me which meant I went beet-red when I exerted myself. Which was not a good look. And, you know, I really didn’t feel the need to strap my boobs into a sports bra and work off the jiggle.
If I jiggled, I jiggled.
Oh well.
But, well, you couldn’t underestimate the kind of damage a somewhat small, but angry female could do. I mean, I could do some major damage to balls if necessary. Even in my quietest, non-ball-stabby shoes.
Anyone who’d even accidentally tapped a guy in the balls knew that they doubled over and cried like you’d ripped out an internal organ or something, so I figured I could get right to the ball kicking, then have enough time to get me and my girl into a locked car.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, and damn if that voice of his wasn’t hot as well. All masculine and matinee-idol-ish.
