A few of the punches connected with a dull heat under Morgan’s muscle that would age into pain later, and someone drove a knee into his ribs that made it hard to breathe for a minute. They’d done this before, but they were used to beatings, not a brawl. Unlike Morgan, who’d been at the bottom of plenty of dog piles.
Morgan ducked a bottle swung at his head and grabbed the guy’s shoulder as he staggered into reach. He smacked the man’s face down into the chipped wooden edge of the pool table. Something cracked, and the guy hit the scarred wooden floor. Morgan grabbed a ball from the table and used it to weight his fist as he laid out a broad-faced man who, two hours ago, had been keen to trade stories of football glory days.
The key to a bar fight was to get your back to something, stay on your feet, and go for joint damage, not punches. A man with a broken nose staggered out of the fight, but you kicked his kneecap out, and he was in everyone’s way but yours. Morgan caught a fist to the jaw, hard enough to feel old damage click, and blinked stars out of his eyes. The inside of his mouth tasted like salt and copper. He’d bitten his tongue—a sliver of it was still caught between his teeth—and he spat the mouthful of blood into someone’s face.
The man recoiled and tripped over a nearby table that collapsed under his weight and scattered broken glass and peanuts across the floor. One of the locals swore as the flood of beer splashed his jeans. He grabbed at the stunned man’s polo shirt, hauled him up by the collar, and slung him toward the door.
Right into someone on his way in. The two men staggered in the doorway for a second, caught in the corner of Morgan’s vision as he ducked and rabbit-punched, and then Boyd shoved the dazed man out into the street.
“What the—” Boyd spluttered.
Something like guilt scraped at the back of Morgan’s throat. Or maybe he was just pissed off since he felt better when he stamped on an expensive sneaker and heard bones break. The last thing he wanted was for Boyd to see him for who he really was—bloody knuckles and the sick satisfaction of pain and all. He’d bet fucking Sammy Calloway never got into fights. He probably played the piano or chess.
Jealous of a dead kid. That’s a new low.
A bloody-nosed man with an angry grimace caught Morgan over the ear with a bottle. It smashed, and he went down on hands and knees in the muck and glass. Someone drove a dirty sneaker into his chest, and he hunched in on himself.
It was better to stay down. If he got up, he’d hurt someone. He could feel the sticky need of it in his chest, blind, black, and drunk on whiskey fumes. That would be stupid. He needed to protect his head and take his beating.
Fuck that.
He hunched over and got one foot braced under him. Before he could shove himself back up from under the sweaty weight of bodies, they were dragged off him. For a second surprise took the starch out of Morgan. He let his shoulders drop and took a breath as he looked up.
Boyd, straight dark brows drawn over his eyes in a glower, shouldered one preppy thug out of the way and then hit Bob with a chair. It cracked, legs bowed in, and Bob staggered backward. He nearly went down, legs folded under him, but one of his friends grabbed him and shoved him back toward Boyd. Bob managed to catch himself before they collided and took a wary step back.
Well, fuck.Morgan scrambled up onto his heels and leaned back against the pool table, one arm hooked over the cushion, to watch the confrontation. He ran his tongue over the back of his teeth. Just when he thought Boyd couldn’t get any hotter…. Although Morgan wasn’t sure if it was the tight gray denim stretched over Boyd’s ass or the blood on his knuckles that did it for him.
Both. Why choose?
Not like it was something that was going to come up a lot. People seldom got in the way of a punch meant for Morgan, not on purpose, anyhow.
“This….” Bob wiped his face on his sleeve and tried to puff himself up. “This isn’t any of your business, Maccabee.”
“I made it my business,” Boyd said flatly. “Get out of here, Robbie.”
The sulky line of Bob’s mouth twisted at the nickname. He jabbed a finger at Morgan. “He stole money off me.”
Snitch. Morgan caught his excuses on his tongue, ready for the look Boyd was about to give him. The “did you” look, the “gotta hear both sides” look.
“Did I ask?” Boyd said. He took a step forward, and Bob—Robbie—took a matching one back. “Go on home and tell your daddy. Maybe he’ll care. I just want to get out of here.”
“At least I have a dad,” Bob jeered.
It was obviously a weak rejoinder, even before Boyd laughed at him. A couple of other people joined in. Color scorched Bob’s face up into his hairline, the stain of pink visible where his hair had started to thin.
“Go home,” Boyd repeated the order. “You’re drunk and more pathetic than usual. Take your friends with you.”
One of the friends blustered up from behind Bob. “Fuck you.”
“Naw,” Bob said as he lifted his chin. “He’d like that too much. Right, Boyd?”
Morgan pushed himself to his feet. His ribs ached, and his head throbbed dully where the bottle had hit him, but nothing was broken. He raked his fingers through his hair, sticky with beer and blood, and grinned. It felt sharp.
“No jumping the line,” he said.
Boyd flashed a quick crooked grin over his shoulder, and Morgan’s mouth went dry. He swallowed salt and spit, sticky on the back of his tongue, and reminded himself that Boyd Maccabee wasn’t in his best interests. The captain had made it clear that Morgan was to keep his distance, and if he didn’t, he could answer any questions from a jail just as easily as from the B and B.
The smart thing to do was keep his distance, ignore the memory of Boyd’s mouth around him, until…. Morgan hesitated for a second and then let himself ignore what he knew the rest of that sentence would be.
