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Does that work when you’re scared out of your mind, pinned in a hallway at a bar no one will find you in?
“Do you really want me to tell your mother what a shit time I had here?” He threatens, an evil grin on his lips.
How long had this been his plan?
“Parker—” I start, but I don’t have to finish my sentence because he’s gone, and I’m no longer being held to the wall by his body, by his presence.
I look around, trying to figure out where he went, only to see?—
Riggins.
Riggins has him against the wall, held by the collar of his stupid fucking shirt, and his face is just inches from his.
“Who the fuck are you?” Parker asks, his ego still too big despite the fact that he is clearly at a disadvantage.
When we were kids, Riggins was lanky, all skin and bones, clothes hanging off him in a way I thought was cute, but as he got deeper into the scene, it was in a way I found concerning.
It seems getting sober changed a lot more than his ability to function as a human being. I have to assume he replaced some of his habits with working out. His shoulders have gotten toned and muscled, the sleeves of the tee he’s wearing stretching around broad biceps and tapering to a trim waist.
I refuse to wonder what the rest of him, covered by clothes, looks like and if it’s changed at all, too.
“Her fucking husband,” Riggins says in a low growl, and my entire body tightens, both with the clear aggression in his words and with what he’s saying.
“Fuck that, she’s not married. She’s been all over me all night, man. Not my fault the bitch doesn’t want yo—” Parker doesn’t have a chance to finish as he’s lifted in the air and pressed to the wall.
He’s kicking, but it doesn't phase Riggs, who shifts his hand, pressing him against the wall, pulls his arm back, and slams it into the side of his head. Instantly, Parker’s body stops kicking. He’s not passed out, but the fight has gone out of him.
Riggins doesn’t care, his arm pulling back again and punching him in the nose, blood starting to drip.
“Riggins, stop!” I shout, “You’re going to fucking kill him!” But he either can’t hear me or doesn’t care, his arm moving back again and landing in his stomach. I look around for someone, anyone, but there’s no one near, no one paying attention.
“REED!” I shout, trying to find him. A few eyes shift in our direction, but no one steps to help. ”BECKETT! WES!” I just need one of them to knock some fucking sense into Riggins or, at the very least, pull him off before he sends Parker to the ER.
God, what a fucking headline that would be.
But no one comes.
We’re in a hallway out of the way, and no one is coming for us.
I have to do it myself.
“RIGGINS,” I shout. “RIGGINS STOP.”
He ignores me and Parkers eyes drift shut as he pulls his fist back once more about to slam it into his face for the third time and my gut tells me this will be the one that lands him in some kind of intensive care. I need to stop Riggins from ruining his career.
He saved me once. It’s the least I could do.
I turn to him, putting a hand on his shoulder, away from his cocked elbow, and tug. His body freezes as soon as my hand touches the cotton of his tee.
“Riggs, stop. Stop. I’m fine. You saved me, Riggs.”
Without him saying it, I know it’s the use ofRiggsthat has his fist dropping, has him letting Parker slump to the ground, has him stepping back.
“Fuck,” he says, and I bend, grabbing his wrist to look at his fingers, bruised and bloody.
“Goddammit, Riggs. You could have hurt your hand. We need ice.” I look down at Parker, who is slowly standing, a slow trickle of blood leaking from his nose.
“I’m going to fucking sue you,” he groans.
