Hard Bastard(114)

“What the hell?” I said.

“Wait a second. I’m just trying to talk to you.”

He was standing close, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. He reeked of whisky and cigarettes. There was something empty in his gaze, something off-putting. I had never seen someone look at me like that before, but I suddenly felt like he was sizing me up.

“Get off me,” I said, trying to yank my arm away.

“Relax. It’s fine. We’re just talking,” he said, tightening his grip.

My heart was hammering in my chest. Nobody was around. Nobody was coming to help me. Why was he doing this? What was going on?

“Get off me, asshole,” I said loudly.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. Hang out together.”

“Let me go!” I yelled in his face.

Suddenly, his expression went from appraising and calm to completely angry. It almost took my breath away how furious he looked. He was sweating slightly and his face was inches away from mine. He spit in my face every time he spoke.

I wanted to vomit and scream.

“No need to fucking yell,” he said.

My heart was hammering in my chest, and I made the snap decision to fight back. As I prepared myself, not sure what I was going to do, but pretty sure it involved hitting him in the balls, suddenly he grunted in pain and dropped down onto one knee, letting me go. Before I could scream in his face or kick him, I saw Lincoln standing there, his cane pulled back.

Lincoln bashed his cane down again, hitting Brent in the side of the head. Brent went down with a grunt.

“Lincoln!” I yelled, but he didn’t hear me. His face was a mask of twisted rage as he stood over Brent and hit him again. I had never seen someone so furious.

“How dare you fucking touch her, you piece of shit,” he yelled as he hit Brent a third time.

“Stop it!” I called out, grabbing his arm.

That brought him back to himself. He dropped the cane and grabbed on to me.

“Are you okay?” he said.

“I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me. Where did you come from?”

“I followed you out here. I wanted to talk. Then I saw him grab you, and the look on his face, and you yelled . . .”

He trailed off as bright lights blinded us.

“Did you get that?” Jess said gleefully.

“Yeah. Lighting sucked, but I got it,” the cameraman said.

“Fuck,” Lincoln grunted.

“Turn the cameras off, you asshole,” I yelled at Jess.

“Sorry, kid,” she said, shrugging.

Lincoln grabbed my arm and stooped down to pick up his cane. “Come on,” he said.

“What’s happening?” someone else said.

I didn’t have time to look back at the crowd slowly gathering around Brent. Lincoln began to walk as fast as he could away from the scene, not bothering to look back. More people were gathering, and fortunately Jess and the cameraman didn’t try to follow us. They were probably too busy making sure Brent wasn’t dead or seriously injured.

My heart was racing. I felt like I could barely breathe as Lincoln towed me along behind him. What had just happened felt completely surreal and fake.

It had happened so fast. One second, I was walking to my car, and the next Brent was accosting me. Then Lincoln comes out of nowhere and practically breaks his kneecap.

We rounded a corner and headed toward a busier part of the city, Lincoln still limping fast, leaning heavy on his cane but not slowing down. I could see the strain on his face, the pain from pushing himself so hard, but he wasn’t complaining. There was a determination there that I had never seen before.

“Lincoln, wait. Where are we going?” I said.

“Getting away from the cameras.”

We turned another corner, pale streetlight illuminating the street. Cute little shops lined the stone sidewalk.

“They didn’t follow,” I said.

“Can’t be sure.”

We kept walking, farther on, down streets I didn’t recognize.

“Hold on, Lincoln.”

I pulled my hand away and he looked back at me. Suddenly, it was like a spell broke and he came back to himself. He stopped walking and turned toward me, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me against him. I fell against his chest as his arms wrapped tightly around me, pulling me close.

I couldn’t do anything but wrap my arms around him and try not to cry. I was probably in shock, but it was hard to think clearly when I was pressed against his hard body, his smell filling my nose.

“Are you okay?” he asked again.

“I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.”

“That mother fucker. I hope I broke his fucking skull.”

“Lincoln.” I pulled away slightly, looking at his face. “You’re on parole. You could go back to jail.”