Page 19 of Unspoken

"Another here, mate," I slur at the bartender, tapping the counter with impatience, when I finally reach the bar. "Long Island Iced Tea!" I have to raise my voice for the arsehole to hear me. And it frustrates me for some reason.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Logan’s silhouette drawn against the bright collection of colors. He’s right behind me, like a bloody shadow.

Moments later, the bartender slides over a concoction that looks like liquid gold but tastes like piss. It's nothing like the ones back in London. My tongue recoils, a snake bitten by its own venom. "Hey, idiot!" I call. "What did you make me? Are you trying to poison me?" My voice mixes with the electric buzz of the casino but it’s loud enough for some heads to turn. Brilliant. Logan’s going to be pissed.

"Long Island Iced Tea," the bartender says with a bit of an attitude.

"Have you even tasted it, you fucking imbecile?" I slam the drink back on the counter, spilling a good portion of it. "It’s shit!"

There’s a small fraction of me that knows I’m being a diva and asking for trouble. But for the most part, I can’t bring myself to care.

"Alexander." Logan steps closer, looming over me like a mountain. Then he leans in and mutters in my ear, "You’re making a scene."

"Fuck off!" I shove both hands into his chest in an attempt to get him off my case. My palms meet with a wall of solid muscle.

Just then four men in suits spill from each and every direction.

"Excuse me, but I’m gonna have to ask you to leave," one of them barks over the noise.

"He's with me," Logan growls. His back is suddenly blocking my line of vision and is a bulwark against the tide of strangely suspicious-looking bouncers. "I’ll make sure he behaves."

Behaves my arse.

And then an idea flashes through my mind.

The world lurches, a drunken waltz of lights and darks, as I leap forward, my entire weight colliding with one of the burly bouncers, the arsehole who asked me to leave. I imagine it's quite thrilling, watching me do the polar opposite of what’s dictated. Because there's an unmistakable alarm, maybe even a hint of dread coloring the bloke’s face right before I slam myself into him. I’m not a fighter. No one’s ever taught me, especially not when your opponent is twice your size, but I’m fast and creative.

I claw at his hair for good measure. Cropped strands that are marginally sufficient for my grip. He squawks in protest. Mutters some curse words. Something very American I haven’t had a chance to learn yet.

An instant later, hands clamp onto my back and shoulder like vises tugging me off from him. People are shouting all around us.

"I need a backup at the southeast corner by the bar!" I can hear one of the bouncers yelling into the walkie-talkie.

Arseholes. All of them.

"Calm your shit down, you piece of shit," another bouncer snarls, attempting to detangle my hands from the bloke’s currently under-attack hair.

My mouth runs ahead of my mind, spitting words like darts. "Back off, you sodding brutes! Do you have any idea who I am? My brother is Vlad bloody Solovey, and he'll kill you all if you laya fucking finger on me!" It's a dare, a challenge thrown down at their feet as I’m being hauled off to the side.

"Enough!" Logan's voice, both loud and firm, booms nearby. The reverb fights through the muddled bogs of my booze-induced mind, but it fails to inspire control in my legs struggling beneath me. Besides, the damage is done. A storm has been summoned. The entire casino is in upheaval now.

And I'm its creator.

Oh, shit! Logan is livid...and rightfully so, the poor bastard.

My vision blurs, a muddied painting of angry satisfaction and liquor. Logan's grip on my arm is iron as he wrenches me out of the casino vultures’ circle. His jaw locked tight against irritation.

"Let’s go," he grits out. He huffs and puffs, practically dragging me like a deadweight around his hand when Mr. Leather Jacket appears out of nowhere and interrupts us. He's all broad-shouldered menace standing at least three inches over Logan's frame.

He looks dangerous.

He catches Logan by the front of his T-shirt while I’m a flailing drunk doll in Logan’s grip. "Solovey is nothing here," the man hisses. "Crown Tower bows to The Thoreau."

Panic flares, bright and searing. I don’t care about my brother. I really don’t, but hearing some tosser calling him nothing triggers something dormant in me. Despite all the haze in my brain.

"We were just on our way out," Logan replies calmly and stares up at Leather Jacket.

Seconds tick by.

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