Bang (A Club Deep Story)(17)

I shiver a little, wrapping my arms around my exposed stomach and  wishing I'd thought to bring a jacket. It's late summer, almost fall,  and chilly enough to raise goosebumps along my arms and chest and  stomach. The crop top I'm wearing is brand new and cost a fortune. The  only way I managed to sneak it into the shopping cart was by pretending  it was a bra, not an actual shirt. The jeans are designer too, and hug  my curves perfectly. Paired with my high heeled Manolo Blahniks, I'm  looking sexy as hell tonight, I must admit.

Not that I'd know the first thing about how to actually be sexy, but  still. I've got the internet, and Dad's "inappropriate content" blockers  can only filter out so much.

At least I'm not the only one pissed at him, I remind myself as I reach  the outskirts of town and saunter onto the sidewalk. I've heard his  meetings lately. Normally the impeccably dressed business men who appear  on our front stoop, accompanied by body guards the size of small  horses, seem to enjoy their time with my father. They all sip whiskey  from the liquor cabinet Dad keeps locked and toast to their various  enterprises. I don't know a lot of details about what exactly those  entail, but I'm not an idiot. There's the front Dad puts on for the rest  of the world, the real estate companies and the investments, and then  there are the offshore accounts he talks about in whispers, the deals  made in his study over those glasses of overpriced whiskey, while guards  man the doors and even the maids aren't allowed to go inside.         

     



 

But lately, those meetings have taken a turn. I've heard shouting more  than once, and just yesterday, a man I'd never seen before stormed out  of the house, shouting over his shoulder that he'd see the Badiary name  ruined if it was the last thing he did.

Guess I'm not the only one Dad is pissing off.

I turn right at the center of town, still lost in thought. That's when  instinct makes me look up, realizing the air has shifted around me.

There's no one else on the street. I shiver. I've never seen the town  this empty, though of course, I've never been out so late before. I  check my phone again for the map I've been following. Dammit. Took a  wrong turn. I double back to the main road, then count street corners  again. Two blocks up, I turn right, and this time, I hear it.

Footsteps.

Almost in sync with mine but off by a hair. Just enough that I can tell.

I speed up, though that's tricky in my heels. I make it to the next  street light, then casually glance over my shoulder, feigning a  nonchalance that I don't feel.

My stomach clenches, my heart rate triples.

There are two guys behind me.

They look about my age, so maybe they're also going to the party. That's  what I try to convince myself. But somehow I can't see either of these  kids, in their torn jeans and oversized hoodies, glowering at me as they  trade a cigarette, going to St. Augustine's. The guys from St.  Augustine's are prep-tastic, rebellious in a Catholic school way. Not  like these guys. One of them steps under the street light a few paces  behind me and I see he has a tattoo on his neck.

"Hey, honey!" that one calls, catching me looking.

I turn around and start to walk again, faster. Am I going the right way  still? I don't want to pull out my phone to check. I duck my head and  speed up.

"Where you going in such a hurry?" he adds. His voice is getting louder. He's catching up.

Dammit. I curse myself for wearing these heels, these tight jeans. What was I thinking?

"Let us keep you company," the other guy joins in shouting. "Not safe out here this late."

They both chuckle, low and dark. Then, next thing I know, they're beside  me, flanking me. I glance back and forth between them, realizing as I  do, that they're both taller than me. Taller and way more muscular.

Tattoo-neck grins down at me, a glint in his eye. "You looking to party? We can show you a good spot."

"Private. Best kind of party," the other guy adds. I turn to size him  up, and he winks, leering at me with nicotine stained teeth.

"No thanks," I say, keeping my voice steady and disinterested. I don't  want these guys to know how much they're unnerving me right now.

"Oh I get it," Tattoo butts in, rolling his eyes. "She's too good for  us." He tugs on my shirt, and I flinch. Mentally kicking myself, I fix  him with a sideways glare. "Isn't that right, little Miss Designer  Jeans? Too good to hang out with scum like us, huh?"

"What was your first clue?" I ask, narrowing my eyes. I toss my hair  over my shoulder and stride forward, trying to ignore them. But then  Tattoo's friend grabs my arm, hard enough to hurt.

"That's not very nice. Where are your manners, young lady?"

"Let go of me," I say, my voice still steady, imperious.

He leans in, his breath reeks, and whispers right against my ear. "Make me."

I wrench my arm from his grip, casting my memory back to the  self-defense lessons Dad insisted I take as a kid. It works-he loses his  grip on me, and I whirl around, plant my feet, and punch him square in  the jaw.

For a second, pride and vicious pleasure surge through me. Ha. Take that.

But it's a mistake. He barely flinches from the hit, and then he's on  me, grabbing both my shoulders and shoving me against the wall.

"You'll pay for that, bitch," he snarls, and Tattoo grabs my other arm,  pinning me against the brick wall while his friend reaches for the clasp  of my jeans.

I tense, ready to kick him, knowing even as I do that it will be  useless-there's two of them and one of me, and they know what they're  doing, more than I do. Why didn't I keep taking those classes? I clench  my jaw, ready to fight to the end, when a loud, deep voice interrupts  us.         

     



 

"Let her go."

All three of us freeze. The guys smirk at one another, but I glance  right past them, to the man walking up the street toward us. The  streetlight catches him just as he shouts, and for a moment, I can see  his sharp cheekbones glazed with dark stubble. A strong jawline, deeply  set eyes that flash in the light. A short haircut, almost buzzed, in a  way that reminds me of the Army.

Then he's past the light, striding right toward us.

"Mind your own business, man," Tattoo says, turning to face this  mysterious stranger. His friend keeps me pinned against the wall, but  he's distracted too, glancing over his shoulder at the guy.

"This is my business," the man replies. He's closer now, his voice  strong with command, the air around us seeming to vibrate. In the dim  moonlight, he looks older than us, though not by much. Maybe 20, 21. Yet  something in his eyes seems wise beyond his years. He's got the kind of  stare that tells you he knows what he's doing, and he'll stop at  nothing to get what he wants. "I said let her go. You have 10 seconds."

"Yeah? Or what?" Tattoo smirks, and his friend laughs.

I take advantage of their distraction to throw myself forward, off the  wall. I half-tackle the guy holding me, wrenching my knee up to hit him  in the groin. At the same time, I swing with my free arm. I punch him  straight in the throat, my fingers pointed sharply.

He staggers back, gasping, even as he grabs my arm again, throwing me  off-balance. I trip in my heels, hearing grunts and crashes beside me.  By the time I catch my balance, I look up to find Tattoo on the ground,  out cold. The stranger grabs the other guy by the throat, and I pull  free, retreating. I trip, land hard on my ass, but I'm finally free.

"You want to leave here now," the man growls, tightening his grip on my attacker.

The attacker nods, at least as much as he can with this guy's arm around his throat.

The man lets go, and the attacker flees, sprinting up the street without even a backwards glance at his unconscious friend.

As for my savior, he steps over Tattoo, expressionless, and strides toward me, one hand extended.

We lock eyes, and for a breath, I don't move. Just watch him, wary. He's  just rescued me, and gazing up at him from my undignified position on  the ground in the middle of this empty street, my heart starts to beat  faster. Damn, my hero is hot. Up close, he's got cheekbones that could  cut glass, a smooth face, marred only by the crease in his brow as he  frowns down at me.

Slowly, I reach up and place my hand in his. He tightens his grip around  my fingers, pulls me up. He clenches my hand hard, hard enough to hurt,  but I pull myself to my feet in one smooth motion, and as soon as I'm  upright, he lets go, almost like he doesn't want to touch me. Like I  burn him.

He definitely burns me, in a way I've never felt before. My stomach  feels like it's turning inside out, and I finally understand what people  mean when they talk about butterflies.

"Thank you," I say, eyes wide.

His scowl only deepens at that. "Don't thank me," he says. His voice reverberates in my chest, deep as thunder.

"You just saved me from those guys. What else am I supposed to do?"

He takes a step closer, and I stiffen. Something about the way his eyes  narrow and his mouth straightens into a thin, hard line makes me  nervous. There's a glint in his eye, something almost like recognition.  Recognition, and disdain …  But he couldn't possibly know me.