The Gun Runner(2)

He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and walked toward us.

The distance between us vanished, and Vincent’s grip on me tightened. It was so like him to attempt to use me for a shield. He was the type of person who wouldn’t hesitate to abuse a woman, but when it came to standing up for one—or challenging a man—he was all tongue and no tactics.

At least that was what my father said about him.

When the stranger was so close that I could smell him, he lowered his chin. The muscles in his jaw flared. I had no idea of what he had planned, but his focus was unquestionable. His chiseled facial features, strong jaw and high cheekbones only added to the intensity of his narrow-eyed stare.

He stood close enough to reach out and touch me. A lump rose in my throat. I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and attempted to swallow, but a combination of fear and the unknown prevented it. Vincent held me so close I could feel his heart beating against my back. I desperately wanted to be free of his clutch, but at that moment I saw no way this could, or would, end.

And then it happened.

I didn’t see it. At least not immediately. A few seconds later, I realized what took place.

The stranger’s hands were that fast.

I was in front of Vincent, with my back against his chest. Being six inches shorter than him left enough of an opening between my shoulder and his neck for the stranger to throat-punch him, causing him to release me in reflex. The instant he let me go, another lightning-fast hand shot past me and smashed into Vincent’s face.

After it happened, I realized he didn’t do it with closed fists. He had done it with his flattened hands.

He stood in front of Vincent in a fighting stance that would scare any reasonable man away.

Vincent fought to breathe.

I stood in awe.

Who are you?

Instead of running or screaming, I stood and stared with my mouth agape. “Uhhm...”

He gestured toward the coffee shop. “You better go get your shoe.”

I hobbled across the parking lot and picked up my shoe, checking over my shoulder every few steps. I then retrieved my purse and gave the coffee-drinking yuppies a fine-tuned fuck-you glare.

I turned toward the parking lot. The stranger’s raised hands, bent knees, and laser-sharp glare made his objective clear. He was ready to continue the fight. Vincent, on the other hand, appeared to be having a difficult time breathing.

I probably shouldn’t have, but I hoped the fabled throat-punch crushed Vincent’s windpipe or something more permanently damaging. If he collapsed dead right then and there, it would have been the beginning of a very good day. Not knowing what to do next, but feeling drawn to my handsome new protector, I held my head high and walked to his side.

Vincent was bent over with his hands pressed to his knees, fighting to catch his breath. Be it genuine or an act to keep the stranger from continuing, I had no idea, and it really didn’t matter.

Feeling confident that the well-dressed street fighter would keep me from harm, I reached down and removed my shoes.

“Che cavolo?” I raised my right foot and swung it into Vincent’s crotch with all my might.

A muffled grunt passed his lips.

“Don’t you ever.” I inhaled a deep breath and kicked him again. “Come near me again. I’ll have my father cut you in pieces and throw you in the Missouri River.”

Vincent fell forward, groaning and holding his crotch. I glared down at him and shook my head. “Testa di cazzo!”

The stranger stepped back and coughed out a laugh. “You done?”

“I am now.” I slipped on my shoes and turned toward my new friend “I can’t thank you enough. I’m Terra.”

“No worries,” he said with a lighthearted shrug. “My name’s Michael.”

No worries?

Maybe not for you.

We shook hands. He looked at Vincent, scoffed, and retrieved his tie and jacket. His grayish-blue eyes commanded my focus. His handsome looks kept it.

“You know him?”

I hated to admit it, but I nodded anyway. “Angry ex.”

I glanced at his car. The license plate said TRIPP. I made a mental note of it and smiled to myself.

I motioned toward the car. “Your last name?”

“Yeah, long story. Listen,” he said. “You better get going.”

My eyes fell to Vincent, who was either being theatrical or still in pain. “You’re right. I can’t thank you enough.”

He grinned. Two slight dimples and a mouthful of white teeth were all I saw.

“I’ll stick around and make sure he gets up,” he said.

“You come here often?”

After I said it, I felt like a fool. It sounded so cliché.

“I will. Just moved to the neighborhood, so this is my new place,” he said. “It’s on my way to the office.”