Has my fist curling and swinging with the force of a brand-new tractor during the first day of harvest season.
Convinces my other to cut around from the other side.
Clip him in the edge of his jaw.
“Security!” Gilly squawks during my gentle pushing of her frame behind me.
Now, everyone knows, I’m more a lover than a fighter.
More “Footloose” than “Dangerzone”.
But you put your hands on a woman in a way the big DJ in the sky didn’t intend and Icanchange tuneskies real quick.
You put your hands onmy womaninany waythat’s disrespectful and I certainlywill.
Without a second fucking thought.
“Security!” she calls out from what sounds like a bit further away.
The Cheetah pylon struggles to settle his stance prior to grunting, “What the fuck is your problem, post rider?” He usesthe back of his dark beige hand to wipe away fresh blood. “Miss my balls in your face already?”
“Cap’s beatin’ was a warmie.” Positioning my fists to protect my face precedes me adding, “Welcome to game time.”
His first thrown punch is sloppily delivered alongside a vicious roar making it easy to dodge.
The next is barely cleaner than the first resulting in a quick deflection.
By the time his third and fourth make an appearance, I’ve located the easiest openings.
Mentally mapped my knockout.
“Too much of a pussy to try to hit me when I’m fucking paying attention, aye?!” the older, most likely to retire after his beating, player chirps. “Too-”
My right fist effortlessly lands in the center of his nose, not only kicking his head back, but sending a tooth flying to the ground. Grumbles of agony echo around the room, yet they’re easy to drown out much like Bronny’s taste in music. Another jab from the same hand is delivered to his open chest prompting my left to repeat the action before my right aims a little lower in his abdomen.
The lack of padding means he feels.Every. Fucking. Hit.
And him feeling every fucking hit pushes me to pummel faster.
Strike his liver.
Again.
And again.
And again, until he’s crumbling to one side, silent screaming.
Just as I move to strike higher, a large pair of golden tan arms, unexpectedly curl around my frame at the same time Dixon, head of Dalvegan security, firmly insists, “That’s enough, Groffee.” Despite the order, my body thoughtlessly twitchesin objection, the melody of determination to finish the ass whooping I started stronger than the harmony of logic. “I said enough.”
All of a sudden, a much gentler graze graces the tips of my fingers, prompting my attention to cut over to the woman I love to hear her whisper, “I’m okay, Jukes.”
Instinctively my digits curl around hers.
Tug her closer.
Fold them completely, the instant Dixon steps off.
Placing a kiss on her knuckles precedes me asking, “Promise?”
