Dirty Sexy Alphas (Twenty Book Box Set) - Hannah Ford Page 0,84

my hands shook, or the ghost-white complexion I must’ve had.

The bartender’s friend was standing in front of the group of four, his hands up. “Chill out our get the fuck out,” he said, his voice more of a growl.

“Let’s just go,” I say, leaning into his ear. “Please. I want to go back to your place.”

His chest heaved, his shoulders rising and falling with every angry breath.

He didn’t say another word, just turned away and left the bar, shoving the door hard on his way out. It bounced back so fast it nearly hit me, but then his hand was there, stopping it just in time.

I thought maybe the millworker or one of his buddies would have shouted out an insult, said something nasty as we departed.

But no—there was just muttering and groaning as the men seemed to be feeling their bumps and bruises. And maybe, I realized—Landon had in fact earned a measure of respect.

Sad that brawling was perhaps the only kind of way to earn respect from those men…and that was the world Landon came from. That was who his father had been. Fitting in some way, I realized, that the whole debacle had ended in violence.

It was his father’s truest legacy.

We were in Landon’s car and speeding away in moments, his hands gripping the wheel too hard. His knuckles were red and bleeding, and his cheek was an angry, blotchy red where someone had landed a fist. He took the corners so quickly I had to brace myself, hanging onto the door handle. Landon handled the car like he was born to do it, the tires chirping as he shifted. We were back at his house in only a few minutes, pulling into the garage.

It wasn’t until the door rolled shut behind us, dimming the daylight, that he spoke.

“I didn’t meant to scare you back there,” he said, without looking at me. He twisted the keys and stared straight ahead.

I wanted him to look at me. I reached out, touching his arm. “You didn’t--”

“I’ll be in the den,” he said, interrupting me. “Best that you give me some time.”

And then he climbed out, and I was sitting in the passenger seat, watching him enter the house.

I shifted in my seat, wondering if I should follow him. He wanted time to cool off. I’d seen the expression in his eyes when he took in my shaking hands. He hadn’t meant to scare me, but I’d never seen a fight like that.

Sure, he’d frightened me. But mostly, I was scared for him. I couldn’t stop thinking about how he looked, surrounded by four men but holding his own, somehow. Throwing punches with near lethal-strength, the muscles in his shoulders and back rippling as he danced back and threw his fists.

Like he’d done it a million times, like he belonged in a boxing ring.

I sighed, trying to push away the images of him as a teen, of his father being his opponent. But it was impossible to block from my mind. There was a reason he knew how to fight. A reason he’d had too much practice, that his knuckles landed exactly where he wanted them to, over and over and over. That he never seemed to even feel the pain inflicted on him, perhaps because he was so used to it after so many years.

The same reason those men had left with bleeding lips and noses and black eyes.

I went to his kitchen, found a bottle of beer in the fridge, and popped the top. Then I stepped out onto the deck, dropped into a chair, and put my feet up.

I would give him time to cool off. And then we would talk.

An hour later I found him in the den, just as he’d promised. He was sitting in a leather easy chair, his feet up on a footstool, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand. I studied him from across the room, taking in his bloodied knuckles and the angry welt on his face.

I walked to the wet bar along one wall, opening the top door on the small fridge/freezer. I could sense his eyes on me, but I said nothing as I twisted the ice tray, then bundled a half-dozen ice cubes into a wash cloth.

I walked to him, sitting on the edge of the chair arm, holding the ice to his cheek.

He winced, but didn’t speak.

“I think you escaped a full-blown black eye,” I said. “But your knuckles look a little worse for the wear.”

He