That wall looks suspiciously like Rust’s broad shoulders.
He rears his arm back, fist cocked. “I’ve fuckin’ had it with you people!”
33
RUST
I landa punch straight to Trevor’s jaw. A veneer catapults from his mouth and he crumples like a paper bag, hitting the floor with a loud thud.
Deathly silence blankets the room, only the jukebox keeps on playing. I feel eyes boring into me.
I don’t know what the fuck happened, but when I turned around after paying for our drinks, I saw these bastards coming at Tally. That was all the info I needed to abandon our beers at the bar and play backup.
Two on one ain’t fair. Much like Trevor’s dental bill is gonna be. And much like the fact that I’m two heads taller than him and double as wide, but he brought this on himself.
His girlfriend shrinks, terror in her eyes. All alone, she’s not so fucking brave anymore. She crouches by Trevor’s side, tapping his cheek. “Baby, are you okay?”
I flex my aching fist. Fuck, I’m getting old. My last bar brawl was too long ago. I’m rusty. I do work out regularly, but my fight instincts have dulled.
“You good?” I ask Tally over my shoulder.
Her palm lays itself gently on my upper back and her body heat sinks through my shirt into my skin. “Yeah. Thanks, Big Guy. The asshole deserved it.”
I nod. “Don’t doubt it.”
Singular clapping signals we’re not the only ones who think Trevor got his just desserts.
“Bout time somebody taught that boy a lesson in humility!” a man shouts.
“Now we punch people we don’t like? Violence ain’t the answer!” another voice rises.
“Tell that to my fist!” the first guy hollers.
A bottle flies past my head and explodes against the wall. Chaos erupts. Suddenly everybody is at each other’s throats like they’ve been waiting for a reason.
Dave ducks behind the bar. “Not again, y’all!”
But nobody’s listening.
Now I understand why Erin made an early exit. This is what she meant by the locals getting rowdy.
The space turns into a dizzying sea of movement, all denim and hats and flying fists. Boots shuffle and men groan in pain when fists meet faces. A bar stool crashes to the floor before a limp body tumbles against the jukebox. The music skips.
“My baby’s gone to greener pastures—my baby—greener pastures—my baby?—”
A boot flies at the jukebox and hits center mass, which seems to fix the issue. The song continues smoothly.
“My baby’s gone to greener pastures cause cowboys always do,”the singer crows.
“Thank fuck! Can’t focus on my punches with that shit!” someone shouts over the splintering of glass and a wave of laughter echoes through the room.
Everybody’s drunk enough to think a brawl is the perfect endto a fun night out.
I turn to Tally, already planning a strategic exit to bring her to safety. I find her still right behind me, covering my back. A look of pure delight in her eyes, she giggles madly as she swings a pool cue at some guy’s feet, putting him on his ass.
I grin. This woman doesn’t need saving and she ain’t caught in the storm. She’s the center of it.
Trouble—with a capital T.
