Club Princess - Nicole James Page 0,46

gaze for an instant, then responds to some remark he makes. I’m a step or two behind Darko and the others as they walk to the vacant end of the bar.

We order a round, and my brothers begin shooting the shit. I barely hear the conversation, my mind too filled with other things, mainly the image of Lola with Utah.

Not long after we order our second round, a rowdy bunch of college aged boys busts through the door, laughing and looking smugly too good for the place.

A jukebox near the door blasts out music.

I scan the room, my eyes falling on Lola; her chair is turned toward Utah’s, and her hand is on his arm. He reaches up, and cups her face. I thump my beer bottle down on the bar top, wanting to cross the room, and tear his head off for touching what’s mine, but knowing I’ve got no right. I down my beer, and set it forward, signaling for another.

Laughter permeates my jealous brain, and I glance over to see the college boys tormenting a teenage bus boy that looks like he may have a learning disability. They call him slow and stupid, and the boy’s face flames red.

I’m off my barstool before I’m even cognitive of kicking it over as I stand. I grab the kid that made the last remark by the scruff of his neck and drive his surprised face into the table. I hear his nose break with a crack. When I yank him upright, blood is gushing over his chin.

The other three of his buddies jump me, fists connecting with my cheekbone.

Seeing my MC cut, some of the locals rush in, thinking I’m picking on one of the local boys.

But with a Royal Bastard in the fight, my brothers come to my support. There are no more than half a dozen of us in the bar, badly outnumbered by the locals, but all of the townies seem to be drunker than us, and spoiling for a fight.

As chairs overturn and fists fly, Lola presses close to the wall next to the jukebox. I’m the center of the brawl, blood pouring from a cut near my eye.

I’m out of breath, and I can feel the pounding of my heart. My head is spinning and there’s a roaring in my ears, probably from the shots I downed back at the clubhouse. I check one blow from one of the college boys, but a second slams into my shoulder. It’s hard to see out of one eye, but I press the fight, smashing my ringed knuckles into some guy’s face and sending him sprawling to the floor.

With that attack repelled, I stagger slightly to see where the next one will come from. I shake my head, blinking in an effort to clear the blood streaming in my eye. There’s the shattering crash of a beer bottle being broken. I turn to find the man I just knocked down holding the jagged neck.

I back up from it, but throw my arms wide. “Come at me, punk.”

The fight has taken an ugly turn, no longer just a fistfight. I could easily pull a knife and end this, but that would get me arrested.

Some of the participants retreat to the sidelines, wanting nothing to do with this escalation. My brothers, still pounding punches, aren’t aware of my situation. My mouth goes dry, and I wet it as we start to slowly circle each other.

“Memphis!” Someone shouts my name above the loud music from the jukebox. “Catch!”

I see a brown bottle sail through the air toward me, and make a one-handed catch of it, glimpsing Lola on the edge of the crowd.

A blur comes at me, and I jump back, narrowly missing the slashing motion of the jagged weapon. I bring the body of the bottle down on the corner of a table with a hard swing, breaking it with a crash, then turn back to my opponent.

I drag in breaths and fight the tiredness in my arms.

“Break it up! Out of the way!” Cops rush in, barking the orders. “Break it up here!”

Uniformed men break through the readily dividing crowd, grabbing and seizing my opponent from behind. I straighten slowly, lowering my hands. My battered fingers loosen their grip on the bottle’s neck, letting it fall to the floor.

This isn’t my town, and I don’t know how much trouble this is. I wonder hazily if Rock’s got the law in his pocket. Right now, I hope so.

Distantly, I