Bossy(3)

“I’m not the one in the way. You are.” My guardian angel flexes, his muscles rippling under his shirt and his tattoos dancing across his skin. “Obviously she doesn’t want to go with you, and I’m making sure the lady gets what she wants. Let go of her and fuck off.”

Michael’s normally a pretty sharp guy, but tonight, alcohol’s not doing him any favors. Instead of doing the sensible thing when a thug twice his weight and all muscle tells him to let go, Michael puts his hand on the guy’s chest and pushes. He might as well try to move a tree, or a building. “Move,” he says, like he’s Harry Potter and knows the right spell.

He’s not, and he doesn’t.

“You don’t seem to understand me.” Tattoo Guy’s hand drops onto Michael’s shoulder, thick fingers gripping him firmly. “I’m going to use small words, just to be sure your tiny pickled brain gets it. Let. Her. Go. I will hurt you.”

Somewhere deep inside Michael’s alcohol-muddled mind, a connection is finally made. He looks up and blanches, taking in the pure bulk of the man looming over him. His grip slackens around my arm, and I tear away with a sharp tug, freeing myself. His hand hangs in the air for a moment as if he hasn’t even noticed me gone. Maybe he hasn’t.

“Good boy.”

Tightening the grip on Michael’s shoulder until he whines in pain, Tattoo Guy leads him roughly towards the door. Michael’s feet only barely keep up, uncoordinated and unsteady. One of the frat brothers helpfully opens the door, and I shiver at the fresh blast of winter air. With a powerful shove, Tattoo Guy launches Michael through the door, where he blunders straight into a snow drift, white flurries exploding into a fine powdery cloud around him as he lands.

“And stay the fuck out.” My hero slams the door without waiting to see what happens.

For a short moment I can’t help feeling sorry for my ex, but then I remember why I threw him out in the first place. Any pity I have evaporates immediately. The jerk deserved it, and more. But unless he has a death wish, he’s no longer an issue. For now anyway.

My savior’s still facing away, giving me a moment to admire his back. It’s just as nice as the front. Clearly defined shoulder blades, and his torso tapers down to narrow hips and a really great ass. If there’s an ounce of fat on him, I don’t see it. I almost reach out to touch him, but while I’m far from sober, I’m not quite that drunk.

What’s with me tonight? I’m not usually impressed by the gym-rat types. I can’t remember the last time someone had me weak in the knees, especially from looks alone. He’s got to be a total ass to make up for that physique. Because no one’s that perfect, right?

I’m still gawking like an idiot when he turns. Perfect.

“Hi.” His perfect lips curl up at the corners.

I look up at those deep blue eyes and fall right into them.

I might be in trouble.





Claire


An hour later, and there’s no might about it. I’m definitely in trouble.

I mean, not like naked-hanging-from-the-ceiling trouble, but I’ve reached the chatty stage of drunk and even though he’s being nice about it, I’m waiting for this guy to wise up and ditch me for someone with less baggage.

Because, whoa nelly, do I have baggage right now and he’s getting to hear all about it.

“Right there, in our freaking bed. She was bouncing up and down on Michael’s dick, and I swear to God he sounded like a constipated caveman.” I bury my face in my hands. “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. Did you know we were going to get married? I almost got married to a guy who’s O-noise sounds like a cave man who doesn’t eat enough fiber!”

The alcohol rushes through my bloodstream, and the world feels just a little bit too small, a little too dark at the edges. I never drink. Looking at my half-empty beer cup, I guess I have to amend that. Almost never. I don’t even like it, but do you know what you get if you ask for Sprite at a frat party? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not all Sprite. Beer is safer.

I tell myself it’s just for tonight, and then I’m back to classes, hard work and making sure I earn my spot in law school.

“You were getting married, and he fucked around on you? In your goddamn bed?” Tattoo Guy still doesn’t have a name, but it hasn’t really come up. Or maybe he told me and I don’t remember. By now I’m too embarrassed to ask, anyway.

“Yeah, can you believe it? I guess I’m glad I found out before, rather than after.”

“What a fucking loser.”

I agree with him wholeheartedly, nodding at his words.