Billionaire’s Pursuit(12)

 “What the fuck do you want, pretty boy?” the man said. Puffing out his chest, he moved towards the edge of the rope.

 Unflinching, Mr. Sinclair leaned in towards the man, inches from his face, and gestured in my direction.

 “Apologize to the lady, shithead.”

 The man leaned away, roaring in laughter as he did. He clapped his hands together in front of his body at chest level and rubbed them together with a vigorous motion. Then, quite suddenly, his demeanor changed. His glare grew dark and dangerous. Others in line, sensing the change, began to back away, giving the men their space.

 The man flicked his tongue like a serpent and after making a quick gesture with his chin he glared at Mr. Sinclair and said, “Or what, yo? What the fuck you gonna do about it?”

 Throughout the entire display, Mr. Sinclair remained silent, still. As the man threatened him, he simply moved his head from side-to-side as if he were studying him, sizing him up. At last the man seemed to have had enough.

 “Yo, mother fucker, what the fuck you gonna do!”

 Mr. Sinclair smirked. “Last chance dirtball. You apologize or I make you do it myself.”

 No sooner had he finished speaking than the man bumped him with his chest making his intentions clear. Then, almost before I realized it, he turned his back towards me and took a swing at Mr. Sinclair. Covering my mouth with both hands, I almost fell back off the curb as I watched what unfolded in the next few seconds.

 Like a skilled combatant, Mr. Sinclair sideswiped the man’s lunge and before I took another breath, leg-swept him to the ground. As he did, he grabbed the man’s arms, pulled them behind his back and with his knee firmly in the man's back, Mr. Sinclair gestured for me with an almost casual nod.

 Mr. Sinclair’s sinewy musculature rippled beneath the expensive fabric of his jacket as he looked at me. A loose strand of hair fell across his forehead, casting an ominous shadow over the dark brown pools of his eyes. The man lay fully prone and motionless beneath him, yelping in pain.

 “Maddie, come here. This man has something to say to you.”

 I hesitated. I felt every single pair of eyes on me as I looked in their direction. Mr. Sinclair’s voice cut through the haze of the chaos.

 “Maddie,” he said. “It’s okay. Come on over.”

 I staggered with the first few steps I took--my feet seemed as if they moved through quick drying cement. With my mouth devoid of all moisture, I struggled to choke down my disbelief at what I was watching. Yet, I did as he said and a moment later I stood next to him.

 Mr. Sinclair lowered his head to the man’s ear. “If you want to use your arms for anything other than stuffing for your shirt sleeves the rest of your life, I suggest you do as you’re told and apologize…”

 As he paused, he tugged at the man’s arms, bringing them close together in the middle of his back to emphasize his point.

 “Ahhhh!” the man screamed. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry! I'm sorry!”

 Mr. Sinclair chuckled and then looked up towards me. I felt my breath fall away as he looked up at me. No one had ever done anything like this for me and as much as I hated to watch it, I’d be lying if I said part of it didn’t excite me.

 “Well, Maddie…” he began. “Is that good enough for you? Let me know if it isn’t because there’s nothing I’d enjoy more than teaching this piss-ant a lesson about manners.”

 I happened to glance up from the scene at my feet to see everyone in line circled around, waiting for me to say something. Aside from the thump of a heavy bass coming from inside the club, the entire block fell silent. I blinked myself back into awareness and returned my attention back to the men.

 “Yes, yes…” I began, with a sense of urgency in my tone. “I accept his apology.”

 Mr. Sinclair nodded and a wry smile came to his face. Before he got off the man he shoved him in the back one last time. As the hapless assailant lay on the ground rolling and groaning in pain, Mr. Sinclair brushed his shirt at the elbows and walked back towards me.

 “I think I’ve seen enough of Los Angeles for one night.” Extending his arm, he continued, “How about coming back to the hotel with me for a nightcap?”

 Dumbfounded, I walked arm in arm with him back to the end of the block where the limo waited for us. As we approached, Armando scrambled around the front of the vehicle to open the door for us.

 “Mr. Sinclair, sir,” he began. “Are you okay? I saw what happened. Do you, um, should I call the police?”