Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck #8) - Emilia Finn Page 0,100
advance on Jamie at once, I ball my fists the way he taught me all those years ago, I stand by his side and yelp when he pulls me in close – not in restraint, but in protection – and then I swing out when one guy gets close enough.
I slam my fist to his jaw, cry out when every single one of my knuckles cracks under the pressure, then I swing again when the guy keeps moving.
“For fuck’s sake,” Jamie grunts.
He tosses men aside, one, then another, then another. He’s like a bowling ball, clearing the lane and knocking pins to the ground. He keeps me close each time he advances forward, but behind him, so I don’t get hurt by anyone else.
The damage I do to myself… well, there’s not a whole lot he can do about that.
Tables and chairs crash around us, blood spurts to the floor from men who have absolutely nothing to do with me, Jamie, or this fight.
They’re settling their own disputes tonight.
Curly fries fling into the air when a table is crushed under a brawling pair’s weight. And when a pair of beefy arms wrap around my stomach from behind and my feet leave the ground, Jamie spins at my squeal, and changes from regular pissed to downright homicidal when the guy’s hand cups my boob in a punishing hold.
It’s like a scene from a Terminator movie, but instead of bullets, pool cues slam into Jamie’s back. He doesn’t seem to feel them. Men try to grab him from behind, but he’s too strong for them. His chocolate eyes look black in this bar, enraged, and ready to kill a man.
I stomp on my captor’s foot, and cry out when my shoulder hurts from the movement, but then I’m gone, torn from the guy’s grasp and left dazed and dizzy when Jamie dives at him the way a lion might pounce on a fleeing meal.
I stand just three feet away and watch on as Jamie belts the shit out of the guy who copped a feel. Maybe the guy’s end goal was honorable – save the girl – but his boob grab wasn’t accidental. Nor was the squeeze, or the erect dick against my back.
Jamie’s fist slams against the guy’s jaw. Blood drips to the floor, his, his opponent’s, and all the while, I stand on the sidelines like some kind of brainless twit.
I started this mess. I wanted to escape and run back to my brother.
While Jamie is busy, my gaze shoots to the door to find my path clear. No one stands between me and the exit; not one single person. And in my pocket sit the SUV’s keys, which I swiped from Jamie back at our table.
I’ve still got it. I can still pickpocket like a pro.
And now’s my chance to run.
It would take me a single second to swipe a wallet, get some credit cards for gas money – I already have a car. I could be gone before Jamie even surfaces from his fight.
But then Rodney catches my eye.
He stalks forward, pausing only to grab a barstool. He tests its weight. Its strength. He lifts it high above his head while things fly everywhere behind him, and then he crosses the last ten feet with the intention to swing it down and knock Jamie the hell out.
“No!” I duck in as the chair swings down, take a hit on my bad shoulder, but I ruin the guy’s shot and shove him back.
Jamie’s head whips up when he hears my shout. Fist suspended in the air, his other hand holding Boob Guy’s collar, he straddles the man’s hips, but jumps to his feet in an instant.
His only goal is to protect me. His ability to fight and keep watch of me is insane. But he manages it.
He jumps up lithely like a cat, pulls me away from Rodney, and tucks me under his arm, and then he makes a move to steamroll forward and beat Rodney up.
It’s what he does.
He’s fighting because I made him.
He’s bleeding because of me.
“Jamie, no!”
Using his forward momentum, I clutch to his left hand – his bad arm – and continue dragging him through the bar. Past brawlers, past one guy who breaks a beer bottle and turns to his opponent with a feral glint in his eyes, past the server who brought us our Cokes, while she hides behind the bar and holds the phone to her ear.