Page 43 of Hired Help

But I can’t make myself move forward. I tilt my head to one side, listening for any sounds out of the ordinary. Far away, a dog howls. Cars swish by with regularity, their wheels spinning all the gathering moisture from the road into the gutters.

I do a slow turn, trying to see what’s plucking at my nerve endings like they’re an emotional harp.

There are low voices at the edge of my hearing. I stand as still as I can, trying to pinpoint where they’re coming from, then a sharp squeal cuts through.

I turn back the way I just came, picking up speed, ears alert for any further noise. Within the length from one streetlamp to the next, I start jogging, cursing myself for not checking first with the largest group of troublemakers on my street.

By the next pole, I’m flat out sprinting, pushing myself harder, faster, desperate to close the gap.

“— hands off me.”

Brooke’s voice is a knife cutting through the darkness. I home in on the sound, swivelling to the new angle, my house flying past on my right-hand side while my shoes slap against the footpath, breath heating in my lungs.

“There’s no need to be like that.”

I recognise the voice. A man I’ve heard calling out from the gates of the gang house. Not someone I could put a face to but his vocal signature registers loud and clear.

My pace slows as I see the grouping. Brooke in the centre, her cream dress muddy, hair bedraggled with rain, looking for all the world like a doll left behind in the park after a long day’s play. Around her are three large men, dressed in worn leather and denim, two with shaved heads, one with a mullet, the back longer than mine; every piece of visible skin covered with tattoos.

The anger I felt earlier resurges, multiplies, and gets directed to a new source. Our conflict disappears beneath the weight of indignation that these men are toying with my girl.

Mine.

With a possessive roar, I launch myself at the two men with their backs to me. My first punch smashes into the rear of the first man’s head, knuckles crunching into the hard bones of his skull. The sharp jolt of pain spurs my second punch to go harder, crushing into the second man’s face as he turns to see who assaulted his friend.

Adrenaline jolts through my body. Brooke stares at me, wide-eyed, tiny compared to the hulking male behind her. I grab her wrist, tug her forward and shove her behind me. “Run.”

Her fleeing shape is a blur in the corner of my eye as I duck a punch from the first man I hit. My feet remember this dance. They know the steps, have the choreography down pat.

I dodge another blow, letting the momentum carry the man halfway past me, sending him the entire way with an elbow to the back of his neck. Then another punch to the second man, the third now looming in my peripheral as I lunge forward, then cut to the side, twisting so I’m side on to the largest of them, hands raised in defence, feeling good, feeling aware, feeling alive.

The second man twists, tracking Brooke, and a wave of the purest energy propels me forward, shoulder striking him mid-chest, using my weight and momentum to knock him off balance, stomping my foot into his lower leg as he falls to the ground.

It’s so freeing to release the aggression that swelled within me tonight. So fuckinggood.

A blow catches me on the side of the head, eyes watering, numbness soon thawing into pain. I turn as the first man darts towards my house, towards the girl shivering near the gate. Another punch glances off my ribs as I spin to give chase, barely felt as I slam into the figure, planting my feet, driving the weight of my body into him. I force him against the wall, making the boards shake, the chain-link fence beyond rattle.

My brain dumps another vial of adrenaline into my bloodstream. I hold the man steady, jab, jab, jab in his face, the blows too quick, too short to do much damage but still enough to split his lip, burst apart his nose.

Hands grab my shoulders, haul me backwards. My feet tangle, nearly tumbling me to the ground.

“Get off me,” I roar, linking my hands together and jamming my elbow back into his stomach. His muscles are held so tense, it’s like cracking bones against a rock wall. “And get your fucking hands off my girl.”

“Daegan?” The hands let me go, push me forward. As I stagger, a face shoves close to mine. A familiar face to match a familiar voice.

The red swirls of anger fade from my vision long enough to recognise the man speaking. We spent a few hours together back in January, repairing the damage to our shared fence when a large wattle tree was stuck down in a summer storm.

“Shit, man. She came from the opposite direction. We had no idea she was with you.”

God knows what his name was, but it doesn’t seem to matter now. He gestures to his mates, and they retreat.

“We’re good, yeah?”

I stare into his heavily tattooed face, the lines of his moko following the curve of his brow, cheekbones, chin.

There’s a stinging pain in my ear, swelling near my eye, blood in my mouth, my shoulder joint is screaming. I spit to the side, glaring at him, then turn to check on Brooke who’s now sheltering on my front step.

“Yeah.” I give a single curt nod to him. “We’re good.”

---