Page 7 of The Painter and His Poet

“Take it easy,” she demands softly, despite her hard expression still aimed at the fucker watching this all play out.

“He needs to leave. NOW!” the bouncer insists.

“I’ll go. It’s all good,” I mutter, forcing strength into my spine, but finding myself leaning into Friday more than I should.

“You’re not going anywhere, not on your own,” Friday insists.

“Either he leaves now, or I throw you both out,” the dickhead snaps.

“Fine. I’ll just grab my bag,” she replies coldly, turning her attention to me, her voice softening. “Can you stand on your own for a moment?”

I give her a brief dip of my head. “I’m good.”

It’s a lie of course, I’m positively fucked, but I’m not about to admit that now. She nods, withdrawing her hand from my arm, and throws one last look at the bouncer.

“Do not touch him!” she warns, her finger jabbing into his chest.

The bouncer grumbles something cutting under his breath, but he doesn’t try to manhandle me again. With a brief,concerned look in my direction, Friday twists on her heel and rushes towards the stage, grabbing a bag and coat concealed behind a swathe of moth-eaten velvet curtain, returning within moments.

“Off you go,” the bouncer says, folding his arms across his chest as Friday reaches for me once more, her arm threading through mine.

She doesn’t even blink, so caught up in helping a stranger stagger across the club that she forgoes all sense of concern for herself. I could be a psychopath praying on women for all she knows. I’m not of course, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying about her sense of self-preservation. Is she always so… sokind, so unfazed by a stranger in need?

“What an asshole!” she exclaims as I walk unsteadily towards the exit. “What happened to a little human decency?”

“You seem to have it in spades,” I reply, gripping the handrail and hauling myself up the stairs with her assistance.

“In spades?” she questions, a confused look on her face.

“It means you have a lot of something. In your case, human decency.”

She nods, her lips quirking up in a smile. “You need help, I’m helping. I’d do that for anyone in the same predicament.”

“I could be dangerous.”

“Are you?” she asks, side-eyeing me as we reach the top of the stairs, the air isn’t as thick up here, thank fuck, because believe me, I’m an inferno of blazing heat and unequivocal fucked-upness.

“No.”

“Didn’t think so,” she murmurs.

“Pretty sure most dangerous men would say that,” I reply.

“I trust you,” she says as we step outside of the club, and I lean against the brick wall, dragging in deep lungfuls of air.

It’s stopped raining now, the alleyway glistening with puddles from the recent downpour, the reflection of the red neon light ofSmokey Joe’srippling in the nearest puddle.

“Why?” I eventually ask, flicking my gaze her way.

“Why what?”

She steps back, giving me space. Space I could easily eat up with one step toward her.

It gives me a moment to study her. I’m guessing she’s around five foot eight, and whilst I’m making huge assumptions here, she’s unlikely to be able to fend me off if I was a psychopath, hence the question. Then again she could be a black belt in karate, and more than capable of defending herself should the need arise.

Not that it would, I don’t want to hurt her. I want to sink my cock inside of her and then I want to paint her on canvas. Not just the colours she entices within me, buther.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

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