Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(22)

I risk a glance at him, but he doesn't look offended, wounded, or even fazed. In fact, he looks amused. Deadly amused.

Except the drunken assholes are too far gone to pick up on nuances, and  they keep on, oblivious to the fact that the "cripple" in front of them  could take them out with one swipe of his cane.

"Why don't you come home with us, sweetheart?" the ringleader says,  sliding an arm around my waist. "Don't you want to be with someone that  won't make you lose your appetite?"

I start to put my hands on his shoulders to push him away, but Paul is  faster. The handsy jerk is on the ground, howling in pain, before he's  even registered what happened. Acting on instinct, I start to kneel down  beside the writhing kid, but I freeze when I see the look on Paul's  face: ice-cold rage.         

     



 

My hands are shaking when I straighten back up, although I'm not sure if  it's from feeling cornered by the frat boys or because of this violent,  out-of-control side of Paul.

But that's not quite right. Violent, yes. But not out of control. I  think I'd prefer it if he was, because this Paul is a lethal machine.

The kid on the ground apparently realizes he's not as injured as he  initially thought, and with a sneer he starts to dive at Paul's bad leg.  Again, Paul is faster. With one hand he jerks the kid to his feet  seconds before his other fist collides with the frat boy's nose.

The cane clatters to the ground, forgotten, and the swagger slowly fades from the rest of the drunken kids' faces.

"Paul," I whisper.

But he's not done.

"Apologize." He leans down to where the ringleader is wiping his bloody nose.

"Fuck you, dude. You're a freak."

Paul gets closer. "Apologize to her."

"Why?" the idiot says. "I didn't do anything she didn't want."

My eyes narrow, but before I can tell this little twerp to learn some  manners and get the hell out of Kali's bar, one of his buddies finally  finds his balls enough to defend his idiot friend and throws a punch at  Paul's stomach.

A mistake.

The next moments pass in a blur, and before I can tell the lot of them  to get their testosterone under control, the fists start flying in every  direction. A couple appear to connect with Paul, but for the most part  he seems to dominate. Even outnumbered, a seasoned soldier is no match  for beer-soaked kids.

Finally, finally they back off, one by one. The idiot ringleader looks  like he wants to get in one last jab despite the bloody nose and  soon-to-be black eye, but all he can manage is one more sneer and a  muttered "Freak!" before he leads his band of drunken morons from the  bar. As they walk by Paul, a few of them do that shoulder-to-shoulder  jab that guys do, but Paul doesn't seem to notice. Or care.

Belatedly I realize that the entire bar has fallen silent. Everyone is staring. Paul doesn't seem to notice that either.

I start to move toward Paul, but he cuts me with that ice-cold look before slowly bending down to pick up his cane.

He doesn't use it as he walks away, but he's limping. And although I'm  dying to help him after what I've just dragged him into, the least I can  do is let him walk out of here on his own. Reluctantly I let him go.

I close my eyes. Damn it.

Belatedly I realize we need to pay Kali, but when I look in her  direction she gives a little shake of her head before waving me off. I  owe her. She should be throwing us out, not paying our bill. But a quick  look around shows that Kali's not the only one on our side. A couple of  other people catch my eye and give me a quick nod.

I realize then what I should have known all along: this is a small town.  Paul may not let himself be friends with these people, but he's one of  them. For that, they let him have his moment.

I give a weak smile in gratitude as I follow Paul out into the night.

"Paul?" I call, looking around the half-empty parking lot.

I hear the chirp of his car as he unlocks, it, but he doesn't look up.

"Paul!"

I move toward him, but the look he gives me is murderous and stone cold.  I stop in my tracks, my heart twisting at the sight of the blood on his  face.

"I'll come with you," I say lamely.

Instead of answering he lowers himself into the driver's seat and slams the door.

Thirty seconds later I'm standing alone in the middle of a deserted  parking lot, wondering exactly how much damage I just did to an already  broken soul.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Paul


By the time I pull into the garage and storm into the house, my  self-hatred threatens to choke me. I hang on to the anger like it's a  lifeline, because the alternative is despair. And despair might kill me.

I let the damned cane go flying with an enraged howl the second I enter  the library. If my leg is hurting, I don't notice it over the fact that  my face feels like someone split it open. One of those little punks  landed a shot. Not a solid hit, but enough to hurt.

I should have been able to wipe the floor with them. Just a few years  ago, I would have. As it is, I did some damage, but I didn't exactly  dominate.

Hell, I shouldn't even have been there at all-at the bar or in the  fight. But I was. Because of her. Some fucked-up mixture of chivalry and  jealousy had me acting like a boyfriend when those kids cornered Olivia  in the bar. She's not mine to protect, but when I heard their laughter  and saw the tension on her face, I sure as hell wasn't thinking of her  as my caregiver or an employee.         

     



 

I was thinking of her as mine.

I pour a generous measure of Scotch and start to toss it back, but stop  myself. Tonight I don't want to go numb. I need to hold on to my anger. I  need to remember this exact moment so I don't make the same idiotic  mistake again. I need to remember that I'm not normal. I'm not a guy who  can go out to bars and have a drink with a pretty girl and catch up  with an old friend.

That kid's words keep running through my head. What are you, an extra on a horror set?

I'm not even mad. Not at the kid. That little shithead understands the  way the world works. It's Olivia who doesn't get it. She thinks it's no  big deal for us to go grab a drink in a public place. But the worst part  isn't that she believes it. It's that she temporarily lured me into  that dream.

I should have trusted my gut. I should have listened to the part of me that knows people aren't kind and good.

I take another sip of my drink. It's tinged with the metallic taste of  blood courtesy of my split lip, but I don't bother going into the  bathroom to clean up. Like the pain, the blood is a good solid reminder  of the lesson I just learned.

Never again. Even in my neighborhood bar, my very own goddamned  backyard, there'll be outsiders. They'll look, they'll stare, and  they'll remind me that people like me and people like Olivia do not  belong together.

I'm tossing wood into the fireplace, slowly stoking the flames, when I  hear her come in. It would be easy to turn my anger on her, but I'm  learning that any emotion when it comes to Olivia is destructive. I'm  better off ignoring her.

Easier said than done.

I brace myself for Oh my God, are you okay? But she doesn't say anything.

I stay crouched in front of the fire, ignoring the fact that the  position aggravates my leg. I do my best to ignore the pain in my face. I  do my best to ignore her. I'm failing at the last one because, damn it,  I want her to touch me.

I hear the familiar sound of the stopper being pulled off the decanter  and liquid being sloshed into the glass. For a second I think she's  pouring me a glass, not realizing I already have one in hand, but  instead she walks back out the door.

Thank God. She just wanted to help herself to a drink and leave the monster to his ugly brooding.

I tell myself I'm relieved, but the truth is, the only relief I feel is  when I hear her come back. I keep my eyes on the flames, but I hear the  familiar sounds of her curling up in what I've come to think of as her  chair.

She sits there, silent, and I know what she's doing. She's waiting for me to let her in.

Fat fucking chance.

But I give her a slight glance over my shoulder anyway, for just a  moment, and the sight of her takes my breath away. The firelight makes  her hair glow gold, and her eyes are dark and steady as she watches me.  Her legs are curled up beneath her the way she does when she's reading,  my favorite faux-fur blanket tucked around her like it's hers to take.

But that's not what bothers me. What bothers me is that I want her to be  mine to take. And when she's looking at me like that, I can almost  believe it's true. I can almost believe that all I have to do is reach  out to pull her to me, to devour her . . . and that she'll come  willingly.

She continues to hold my gaze as she idly lifts the crystal glass to her  lips, taking a tiny sip of Scotch. I vaguely register the clink of the  ice cubes in her glass. Ah, so that's why she left the room-to get ice.  It's sort of a crime, given how much this liquor costs, but I don't give  a shit because she's here. She saw me at my worst, and she's here.

I carefully stand before sitting in the seat across from her, and then, because I know I can around her, I close my eyes.