What did he expect? I would have asked as much, but the puncher twisted around with the swing and bolted toward me in a full run. The men down the street rushed forward while their leader kept cradling his face.
Like an impatient groom on his wedding night, my retreating savior scooped me up in his arms. I couldn’t even fight it. Before I realized it, I was sideways. My arms scrambled to find a hold around his neck.
His feet slapped against the sidewalk at a punishing pace. The guys running after us came to a stop at their leader, but my steed didn’t slow. His chest rose and fell with gasping breaths. Pressed against him, held in his arms, there were worse ways to get around but it was a sprint, not a marathon and after a few zigzagged blocks, he slowed to a brisk walk.
I stretched up to look over his shoulder. Nobody had followed us. In fact, other than a few people visible through windows, we were completely alone. I was alone with a man who was all but a stranger. A violent one, at that. He’d knocked the asshole at the bar with little provocation. Taken on a gang of five, before scooping me up and retreating.
My racing heart slowed now that we’d escaped the gang. Thoughts other than fight or flight bubbled to the surface. The man who still carried me with ease didn’t frighten me. He wanted something – we all did – but his actions told me we could come to an agreement.
“I think you can put me down now,” I said with a pat to his shoulder.
“Is that what you want me to do?” His chest rumbled when he spoke. I enjoyed it too much.
“Yes,” I commanded.
His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head. With a shrug, he lowered one arm. I scrambled my arms around his neck when the center of gravity shifted. Once my feet touched the pavement, I shuffled out of his reach. A shiver ran through my shoulders. Maybe I should have stayed where I was, let him ferry me to wherever we were going. No, I wasn’t going to give into hormones when I still didn’t know anything about my would-be savior.
“What do you want?” I demanded then took a deep breath and extended my hand. “I’m Emma, by the way.”
A smile grew under that damn beard, wide and proud, a victory celebration. He enveloped my hand in his. I’d expected calluses, evidence of wear and tear but found little. He chuckled and the smile turned lopsided.
“Bytheway? Are you one of the Aberdeen Bytheways?” He barked a laugh.
“And I already regret introducing myself.” I paused for a dramatic sigh. “That’s a record and you still haven’t told me what you want or even your name.”
He let go of my hand and stepped backward. Arms open to his sides, he nodded deeply.
“Ian Fitzroy.”
“Well, Mr. Fitzroy, what do you want?” I asked.
Offer and Acceptance
Ian
Emma’s blue eyes, Turner Eyes, dark and hiding unfathomable depths burned as she examined me. I had to remind myself that they were not his eyes. She was innocent… at least of his crimes. From what I’d seen tonight, she’d at least dabbled on the wrong side of the table herself. Good for her.
She didn’t trust me, not at all, not even after I ‘saved’ her from Bashir and his boys. Hell, helping her out at the pub had backfired. It had set her off. The profile I’d made of her hadn’t matched, but that’s what plans B, C and D were for.
“Are you deaf?” Emma asked. “What do you want?”
“I don’t understand,” I replied.
Playing dumb. Not exactly my cup of tea but it wasn’t truth telling time. I needed a better measure of the woman first since I’d had her so wrong.
“We all want something,” she said, shaking a finger at me, “people. We are a transactional animal. When you do something for someone, you expect something in return. So what do you want?”
Had I not dropped my jaw to prevent it, a smile would have broken out on my face. My already high odds of success had just became a sure thing, despite my misjudgments. Still, I held the truth back. The big ask could come later. Best to use my limited time to its best purpose.
“That’s a profoundly cynical point of view,” I replied, letting a tinge of pity into my voice.
“Cynical? No, realistic.” She held her hand up and flipped if over as she spoke. “Different sides of the same coin and I’ve been called worse. Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
“So no free lunch?” I asked.
“Do you know where that saying came from?” Emma replied with her own question. She answered it herself after I shook my head. “Back before prohibition, a lot of bars offered a free lunch, a nice little spread of sandwiches and snacks all for ‘free’ but chock full of salt.”
“So the customer would buy drinks to wash the free lunch down,” I finished her point.
