“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he said. “But you’re going to want to take those drinks and flush ’emdown the toilet and then getouttahere.”
“Excuse me?” The blonde started to cop an attitude.
“I’m serious,” he said, clapping his hand on the asshole in the suit’s shoulder, holding him in place. “Because this guy—who isn’t going anywhere by the way—just slipped something in your drink.”
“That’s a lie,” the man choked.
Around them people were starting to stare, to point.
“If you want we can get the girls to call the cops. It’s not hard to test for Rohypnol.”
“No cops,” the blonde said.
“Shit. Let’s get out of here.” The redhead grabbed the drinks. “Creep,” she snarled at the suit and then they were gone.
“Keep your eyes on your own lane,” the suit snarled, stepping back, his eyes unfocused and his tie coming undone. The man was drunk. It didn’t matter. It didn’t excuse what he’d done. “Go find your own piece of ass.”
“Can’t do that. See, I got this thing. When I see amanwho wants to hurt a woman, then it gives me pleasure to hurt him back.” He reached and grabbed the guy’s elbow, spinning him around so his back pressed to Patch’s chest as he yelped.
“Hey!” another bar patron yelled. “Quit that.”
“Quit? I’ve only started.” The room felt far away. He put pressure on the arm. He did it slow. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted the fucker in his arms to feel a taste of the fear and horror he’d been about to inflict on that girl tonight.
The suit began to scream, back-kicking, struggling to get away.
Patch didn’t yield. He was past caring. All he knew was the urge to hurt. To break. To destroy.
Yelling. So much yelling. Someone screamed.
The suit went limp.
That’s when the arm dislocated. He felt it go, the pressure give out.
Patch dropped him to the floor and gave him a kick for good measure.
“Scumbag.”
Patch sat up in the dark. His heart pounding. His mouth filled with the sickening taste of bile.
The dude was gutter scum, yes, not to mention one of the most litigious personal injury lawyers in the city.
And without evidence, Guy Footscray spun his story, that Patch Donnelly had tried to muscle in on him talking up a pretty young woman. Typical, arrogant hockey bastard.
He worked the press like a fiddle and within twenty-four hours, everyone was singing the same song.
Patch let it happen. What was he going to do, get into a pissing match? Compare dick sizes? No way were two underage girls going to show up and provide witness statements.
If the world wanted to think he was a monster, let ’em.
And so he’d brooded. And spiraled. And gave in to the anger.
But the lawyer bided his time. He’d been humiliated and wanted payback to be a bitch.
He brought the personal injury suit against Patch, saying he hadn’t filed a police report because he hadn’t wanted to see a local hero arrested, didn’t want to do that to the kids. He was going to represent himself, wanted a million for pain and suffering.
Patch would give it to him too, if it meant he could stuff each dollar down the wannabe rapist’s throat until he choked on it.
He and his lawyer were meeting Footscray after he left Kansas. And if he wasn’t going to be able to stuff the asshole full of bills, he had the choice to fight back.
