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“Don’t be like that, sexy,” he says, placing his grubby mitt straight back where it was. “Why don’t you come sit with us for a while?”
His crew snickers, but I repeat the action of bashing him away. I’m not dealing with this shit tonight.
“Touch me again and you’re going to lose that finger,” I say.
“Your box that tight?” He asks, and a sickening, toothy grin contorts his face.
I take a step back. This isn’t even my table; I don’t need to deal with this shit. But I don’t get far before I’m yanked back to their table with a rough pull.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he says, “you’ll leave when I say you can.”
Chapter 5
Mickey
Brianna needs a protector; she said it herself. If it were up to me, she’d have armed guards circling her twenty-four-seven. But if it’s a savior she’s after, I’ll have to do.
The first time Brianna slaps his hand away, I feel the pang of annoyance flood through my core. The second time gets me onto my feet. But when the little fucker grabs her arm, I dart across the barroom floor towards their table.
Brianna’s shown me her intentions, and in some way, I suppose I’ve done the same. No use in hiding it anymore. I move like a tank through the crowd, smashing past any barrier that keeps me away from her. None of them notice my arrival, and I wonder if they’d be weary of what they say if they had.
“Come on, Sugar Tits. The way you’re dressed, you’re begging for a good dicking,” he says, fumbling his grip on Brianna’s wrist.
This mother fucker will regret opening that shit-eating mouth of his.
“Let go of me,” Brianna says. She breaks free from his grip, but the hapless idiot doesn’t realize what sort of shitstorm he’s walked into.
“Get over here,” he snatches her arm again.
Before his grimy digits touch my woman again, I grab a handful of his hair and smash his face into the table. The impact rattles the wood, and two full beers spill across it. I drive his head down a second time, and a pint glass rolls off the table and shatters on the floor.
“My nose,” he yells. “My fucking nose. You broke it.”
I still haven’t released his head.
“You’re lucky I don’t take it for touching what’s mine,” I say. With a third and final thrust, this one less devastating than the first two, I let go of him.
The three stooges he’s sitting with get out of their seats and take a few steps away from us. They must recognize me if they’re not rushing to the pisshead’s defense, or maybe they can tell I’m out for blood and don’t want to be next on my chopping block.
“Are you alright, Brianna?” I ask.
I know she is. She’s proven to me that she can hold her own, but asking out of courtesy seems polite.
“I’m fine,” a delighted squeal leaves her lips. “Now that you’re here.”
“How about you find a nice place to compose yourself,” I say.
She doesn’t need it, not by the way she’s eagerly awaiting to see another beat down.
But she’s seen me smack a few people around. I don’t want her to see what I have in store for this fuck.
“Who the fuck d’ya think you are?” The drunk who touched my woman roars. He gets out of his seat, but wobbly legs send him to the floor before I have to put him there myself. Head injuries are no joke, but it’s easy to overlook them when drunk.
“Mickey Byrne,” I say with the confidence of a man known in every inch of this suburb.
“Mr. Byrne,” the man speaks from below. He turns around quickly, slinking on flat palms toward his friends a few feet away. “We didn’t mean anything by it, honest. We don’t want any trouble.”
“Brianna, I said go.” He crawls backward, and I follow with slow, calculated steps.
