Page 36 of Rugged and Filthy

“I didn’t sign up for this,” I told him.

“What’s your problem, American asshole pig?” some guy snarked as he walked in front of us.

No one had ever confused me with being a truly decent man, at least in the last fifteen years or so. I reacted as I usually did when some jerk I didn’t know got in my face.

I issued a hard punch.

That was all it took and it was us against them, the Irish thugs and the American pigs getting into a fight. Punches were thrown, men yelling, construction workers racing toward us. And somewhere out of the corner of my eye I noticed the feisty woman taking it all in with a smug look on her face.

I threw a series of savage punches, catching at least three different men in the jaw and stomach before being caught by a huge dude who clocked me with enough force stars floated in front of my eyes. Not to be outdone, I pummeled him in the face and under his jaw, my anger swelling to the point I didn’t know my own strength.

The melee continued for an undetermined period of time until a shrill whistle interrupted all of us, immediately stopping the brawl.

As soon as it did, I realized my face and gut were fucking killing me, the coppery taste of blood spilling into my mouth. I wiped my lips before staring up at the girl who’d found a crate to stand on, the very one who’d issued the shrill sound. Goddamn, if she didn’t look even hotter than the night before, especially with her hands on her hips. She was glaring at me the exact same way she’d done with all of us last night.

Only this time, I had a feeling she wanted to kill me.

“Quiet,” she said in an even more authoritative, defiant voice than I’d heard before.

“You did it this time, son of a bitch,” Hudson said under his breath.

“I said. Fucking. Quiet,” Rylee repeated.

“I can fucking handle the American pigs for ya, Rylee, so you don’t need to get your hands dirty,” the guy I’d hit first said in a rough and tough Irish tone. And there was no doubt he’d pissed her off royally. She turned her venomous glare toward him in a dead ass heartbeat.

“Leave it alone, Declan. This is my rig and I assure you I can handle jerks of all sizes, shapes, forms, and nationalities. However, there will be zero name calling and no more fighting. If you do, you’re fucking out of here. Do you get it?” Not a single man answered her at first. “Do. You. Understand? Or do I need to write it out in Braille for the majority of you?”

A couple of the men whistled. I found it interesting Mr. O’Rourke wasn’t bothering to try to help his daughter out of this situation. I gave him huge cred points and he had a certain level of my respect, although what the fuck was the guy doing sticking his daughter in charge? Most fathers would try to intervene. Didn’t he know rigging was more of a man’s world?

Great. Now, I was showing off my Neanderthal side as well. Not my finest hour.

“He started it,” Declan told her.

“I don’t give a shit who started what. We are professionals and we’re going to act like it. We’re also hosting some guests,” she snapped and swept her hate-filled gaze from one to the other of the three of us.

Hudson grumbled under his breath.

“Do you have something to say, Hudson?” she asked.

He threw up his hands. “Not a thing except we’re glad to be here.”

“Uh-huh,” she snorted.

“How do you know his first name? I’m going to beat their asses,” Declan growled, fisting his hands all over again. He had the fucking audacity to head toward me, chest butting me. What the hell? Who did that?

“Don’t do it,” Jack advised. The man knew when I’d reached my last second’s worth of patience.

“Get out of here, Declan,” she told him. “Don’t come back until you cool off. Get it?”

“This is my project. Not theirs.”

His rebuttal brought a laugh from her throat. She jumped down off the crate, swaggering in his direction. For all her bravado, much like I’d seen the night before, I could smell her fear. And her anxiety. I couldn’t help but wonder more about why her father had placed her in charge. It was something I needed to know before I’d agree to this… bullshit.

“It’s my family’s project. My father. Myself. My uncle. It’s called the O’Rourke Corporation the last time I checked. We write your paycheck and give you all those nice little perks you seem to enjoy including shoving coke up your nose.”

“Whoa,” a couple of the Irishmen said in unison.

“She’s got balls,” my employee Christopher Walker said as he flanked my side. We’d worked together a half dozen times although the man was considered a floater. He’d agreed readily to come on the mission, something that had surprised me. He’d told me Ireland was the prettiest little country in the world. I wasn’t certain I agreed with that. Maybe I was just in a sour mood about everything.

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