Page 27 of Forty

Ouch. That one hits a little close to home.

“You’re the one making this an issue. I’m only dancing. This town’s big enough for the both of us.”

Okay. So now I’m a sheriff about to have a shootout on Main Street?

Heavy drops his voice and steps to me, toe to toe. “This ismytown, and you’re not welcome in it. You can make this easy, or you can make this hard. Please. Make it hard.” He smiles, and I swear, his teeth are pointed like a wolf’s. My gaze skitters around the room, searching for a friendly face. Fay-Lee. My old school bus driver.

Everyone’s backed away and staring. The music’s playing, but only the totally jaded old timers are still two-stepping. Shit. This is a scene.

And Forty’s nowhere to be seen. Guess he left his brothers to do his dirty work. My heart kind of falls and splats like a deflated ball.

“What are you gonna do, Heavy? Pick me up and throw me out in front of half of Petty’s Mill? Everybody’s gonna be really impressed at the big, strong man tossing around a hundred-twenty-pound woman.” I haven’t weighed one-twenty since high school, but I’m exaggerating for effect here.

“Nobody’ll say a word. You’re nothin’, Nevaeh. You’re no one. You should pack up and go back to Pyle. There’s no place here for a woman who’d fuck around on her man when he’s off servin’ his country.”

There’s an audible gasp from a middle-aged couple pretending not to eavesdrop nearby. Heavy’s purposefully projecting his voice. My scarlet A’s getting polished tonight. Damn.

“Back off, Heavy. Live your life, and let me live mine.”

He leans closer, looms over me. I want to curl into a ball, but I puff my chest and fold my arms. There’s no way he’s going to hurt me in a public place. Probably.

“You ain’t gonna strut around this town again, fuckin’ with my boy’s head. He sacrificed for his country. You get that at all? He almost died. He’s home now. And he’s not gonna have to deal with you, I promise you that. Game’s over, sweetheart.”

And then he grabs my upper arm, not too tight that it hurts, but tight enough that I have no hope of wriggling loose.

“Time to go home.” He frog-marches me toward the door, my feet tripping to keep up. It happens so quickly, I’ve got no time to fight or comply. I’m being herded along toward the back exit like a toddler. The crowd parts to let us through.

Oh, crap. There’s always scads of smokers out front. Out back? I’m gonna be all alone. Would Steel Bones hurt me if there are no witnesses? I don’t know anymore.

Why do I keep getting myself into these kinds of situations? I have a death wish. That must be it.

As we near the hall to the bathrooms, I start to struggle in earnest, scrabbling against the wood floors, trying to dig in my heels. When that doesn’t work, I go limp. Hot damn. My arms are going to pop out of my shoulder sockets. I open my mouth to scream, painfully aware of how futile that’s going to be, when a solid figure blocks our path.

“Drop her.”

Immediately, I’m dropped flat on my ass. Oh, ouch. My hair bounces, temporarily blinding me, as I scramble back to my feet. I wrangle the curls back and tug my top so it’s straight.

It’s Forty. Looks like he just came out of the men’s room. My heart starts tripping in a whole new beat. He’s standing like a soldier again, but his face is black with rage and his eyes are flashing. Oh, I know this look. He’spissed.

“I got this.” His voice is clipped, pitched way deeper than it was last night. He’s furious. At Heavy? At me?

Ice water douses the sliver of relief that had sprung in my chest. This isn’t a rescue.

Boots stomp off behind me. Forty glares. The tic in his jaw pulses. Yeah, he’s mad at me.

“Uh. Thanks?”

It’s like I said the un-magic word. Forty swoops forward, throws me over his shoulder, and strides out the back door. The screen nearly slams into my head, but a hand snakes out and grabs it. A skinny kid with a prospect rocker follows us out to the lot behind the bar.

Forty’s rock-solid shoulder grinds into my soft belly with every step he takes, and it’s not helping that the world is upside down. I’m gonna puke. Right down the back of Forty’s cut. Serves him right.

“Let me down! Asshole!”

The prospect’s grinning. He’s an asshole, too.

“Wash, watch the door,” Forty barks. “Nobody comes out.”

“Yes, sir.”

---