“You’re lucky we haven’t phoned the police,” I heard an irate man’s voice say and I rushed faster down the last steps to see Deacon, in his thermal from last night, his jeans on, feet bare, barring the door.
He was so big I couldn’t see beyond him but I didn’t need to. I knew who it was.
The threat delivered, Deacon, being Deacon no matter what you called him, unsurprisingly didn’t reply.
“You put your hands on my son!” The man snapped.
I arrived at the scene on this ridiculous accusation and didn’t hesitate to press into Deacon’s side, shoving myself under his arm that had a hand to his hip. I was vaguely surprised when he didn’t try to hold me back. But when I had my position, I straightened and saw the parents, man up front, woman staring angrily at Deacon behind him, both facing off.
“I was there,” I stated as Deacon shifted but only to wrap an arm around my shoulders and press me tight to his side.
I didn’t know what to do with that maneuver except think that it felt lovely. Even me being short(ish) and him being tall, standing with him like that felt amazing, like we fit together perfectly.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t give myself time to enjoy that feeling.
I had to keep speaking.
“He didn’t touch your son.”
The man had moved his angry glare to me. “That’s not what my son says.”
“I would care what your son said if you raised a boy with a smidgeon of decency,” I shot back. “Since you didn’t, I don’t.”
The man reared back but the woman leaned forward. “You dare!” she hissed.
“We interrupted an attempted rape,” I announced.
Both of them reared back at that.
“Yep,” I stated. “They also damaged my property. I’ll be charging your credit card for that. Unfortunately, there is no charge for scaring a couple of teenaged girls half to death and teaching them the hard lesson that there are extreme assholes in the world or I’d charge you for that too, give it to them, and encourage a serious shopping spree.”
“You will not charge me an extra dime!” the man barked.
“I absolutely will,” I snapped back.
He moved forward, aiming mostly toward me, in other words making a big mistake, doing it saying, “Don’t you think—”
“Step back,” Deacon growled, shifting minutely but meaningfully. The man shuddered to a halt and jerked his gaze to Deacon. “Now,” he finished.
The man stepped back but did it talking. “You can’t—”
Deacon interrupted him, “I can do whatever the fuck I want. You’re on property that doesn’t belong to you, motherfucker. Step the fuck back, calm the fuck down, and realize that you aren’t dealing with fuckin’ idiots.”
“Your language does not need—”
Deacon cut him off. “I took pictures, moron.”
The man’s head jerked.
“Yeah,” Deacon continued. “Photos of the mess and shots of those boys cleaning up that mess. Puke. Booze. Drugs. Smokes. The damage they caused. I did not touch one of them but they touched two girls and my woman knows where those girls are. You think, she saved them from the shit those boys were dishin’ out last night, they would not back her play if she asked, you’re fuckin’ wrong. They know they got delivered from a world of hurt that would haunt them for the rest of their fuckin’ lives, hurt your punk-ass bitch of a son was open to servin’ up. You lucked out. They wanted to put it behind them and move on. You drag them into this, don’t teach your son the lesson he deserves, don’t pay for the damage he and his buds caused, you’re a punk-ass bitch just like him.”
I was stunned Deacon could use so many words all at once.
I also thought Deacon calling that kid, and his father, a “punk-ass bitch” was pretty hilarious.
“It’s hardly necessary to be insulting,” the man bit out.
“Man,” Deacon leaned in to the guy, taking me with him, and wisely, the guy leaned back, “last night, we walked in on one of your boy’s buds in the middle of trying to violate a teenage girl and you don’t think it’s necessary to be insulting?”