Page 8 of A Man in Uniform

With one quick jab, I knee him in the dick, causing him to grunt in pain. But he doesn't let go. He doesn't even seem that fazed, instead his hand digs into my face harder. He's blocking my mouth so I can't utter a fucking word, and pins me tighter against my car.

Lifting his gaze to mine, his pupils expand, filling his entire eyes. I'm staring into the eyes of the devil. This isn't a man in front of me, it's a fucking monster.

Folding his lips down, he growls as he slips his hand easily from my mouth to my throat, cutting off my air supply.

I'm trying to breathe, and I'm getting nothing. I can't focus on anything else but the oxygen around me I desperately need.

My eyes start to swell, and everything around me is getting fuzzy. When movement behind him catches my attention. The man holding me follows my eyes, twisting to look back over his shoulder.

“Get your fucking hands off her, Asshole.” A fist flies out from the darkness, cracking against the man's jaw. Hands grip the bartender's shoulders, tearing him off of me.

Leaning over, I rub my neck as I inhale giant gulps of air. Gasping, I lift my eyes, and see the man who was about to hurt me out cold on the pavement. The figure in the dark steps into the light, reaching for me gently, and gripping my elbow.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his eyes feverishly checking me over.

Squinting, I stare at his face as he comes into view under the light of the lamp in the parking lot. I know him. His eyes are familiar, his voice is soothing, and his hands instantly make calm me.

Holy shit it's him. No, it can't be. . . Can it?

I'm not even sure if what I'm seeing is real, or if it's just my mind playing tricks on me.

“Wyatt?” I ask, angling my head to get a better look at his face as I inhale deep breaths.

His head is shaved, and he has a thick goatee on his chin. Hard arms bulge and roll as he moves, helping me to stand up straight. He's bigger than I remember, with muscles he didn't have when I saw him last.

But it's him, it's definitely him. The boy I remember is now a man.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks as if he either didn't hear me, or just doesn't want to answer. His hands slip up my arms, then down again, taking both my wrists, and lifting up my arms.

“Is that you, Wyatt?”

He stops, letting his eyes connect with mine. And that's when I'm one hundred percent sure it's him.

I could never forget the color of his eyes. They're not quite blue, but they're not quite gray. Gunmetal, that's the best color to describe his eyes.

They sparkle with silver, they shine with cobalt, and they penetrate my soul the same as daggers in my lungs. I can feel him, he's looking through me, diving deep into my chest to see if my heart's still beating.

“It is you,” I say before he answers. I'm not sure if he even has the words to answer. He looks shocked, like he didn't think I would recognize him. But I do. I don't think it would matter how much time has past, I'd never forget him.

You can't forget your first love. . . Your only love.

I want to take a step back, but I'm still trapped against my car. I'm flustered. Between the guy who just tried to assault me, and the ghost in front of me, I don't know what to think.

Wyatt doesn't confirm or deny anything for me, there's no nod or subtle shake of his head to tell me I'm right. He stares at me for a long moment then goes back to making sure I don't have any visible injuries. “Who is this guy?” he asks.

“I don't know, I think he's the bartender here, but that's all I know, I don't even know his name.” Folding my arms over my chest, I look at the guy on the ground. He's knocked out, his eye already beginning to swell, and his lip is trickling blood down his chin and over his cheek.

I attempt to take a step, but I stumble, losing my balance and falling back against the car. He quickly throws his arms out, capturing me and holding me up. I feel dizzy all of sudden, and the double vision is back.

What the hell did that guy put in my drink?

Wyatt looks down at the guy as he talks. “Let me drive you home.” Holding out his hand, he wriggles his fingers for me to give him the keys.

I hesitate, clutching my keys tighter. He senses my reluctance, lifting his eyes to mine. “I just want to make sure you get home safely, Story, alright?”

There's a million different emotions flowing through me. My adrenaline is pumping, filling my body with fear and anger, sadness and surprise. I want to cry. I want to smile. I want to scream and shout, and I want to punch Wyatt in the face.

Wyatt drops his hand, resting a hand on the roof of my car and still holding me with the other. Shrugging a shoulder, he looks around us. “Or we can just stand here until asshole there wakes up, and tries to fight me.” He gives me a fake smile, but I don't smile back. “We can call the cops too, I'll give a statement.”

---