Page 23 of Heat It Up (Off the Ice)
“Hey buddy,” Kyle says. “You aren’t driving, are you?”
The man responds, but his words are slurred. I can’t tell if he answers in English or Finnish. He turns and opens the door.
Before the man can climb in, Kyle grabs hold of his shoulder and whips him around. The man staggers but manages to steady himself with the car door. The girl in the car shrieks at us in Finnish.
“You’re too fucking drunk to drive,” Kyle yells in his face.
The man shoves Kyle away and slurs what I guess to be obscenities. Kyle’s jaw tightens and he shoves him right back, pushing him against the car with a lot more force than is called for.
I don’t know where the man gets his strength from—maybe from fear or from anger or from the alcohol—but he knocks Kyle’s arms off him and swings at Kyle. Kyle’s own anger isn’t enough to dull the effects of the beer he drank. And he’s not fast enough to block the blow. The man’s fist slams into Kyle’s jaw.
Chapter Thirteen
Sofia
There’s a misguided belief that a woman needs a man to protect her. He’s the hero of her story, the one who makes her feel loved and safe. To hell with that.
Sometimes men need saving, too.
I grab the jerk’s arm and attempt to yank him from Kyle. None too thrilled at my attempts to intervene, the man lashes his hand out at me. His ring digs into the flesh below my right eye, and gouges the skin. Blood trickles down my cheek but there isn’t time to worry about it. Kyle lies sprawled on the ground, stunned, his glasses on the asphalt near him. The man sneers at him and moves his leg back, ready to kick Kyle in the ribs.
“Kyle!” I scream out.
Kyle looks over at the man, and rolls out of the way. He staggers up but doesn’t move fast enough. The booted foot hits him low in the ribs, below his arm, and Kyle collapses to his knees.
I throw myself at the man. It’s a stupid move, but it’s all I can come up with to buy Kyle time to get up.
The man’s girlfriend goes back to shrieking and jumps into the brawl. She grabs hold of my hair and yanks my head back. I cry out in pain.
Just as I expect them to both turn on me and beat me to a pulp, someone yells in Finnish and the woman is lifted off me. Dazed from being hit in the face, it takes me a minute to realize two cops have stepped in. The man and the woman are talking to them in Finnish. The man slurs while the woman’s shrill voice digs into my brain. Kyle is still on the ground but is now sitting, his glasses back on his face.
“He was going to drive while drunk.” I point at the man. “Kyle was stopping him before he got behind the wheel and killed someone. He assaulted Kyle and kicked him in the chest.” I kneel next to Kyle and tenderly touch where the boot hit him. He flinches.
His gaze lands on where the ring dug into my cheek. I can’t tell if the cut is still bleeding, but it stings like crazy. He cups my cheek in his hand and brushes his thumb below the cut. “Did he do that?”
I nod.
The cop crouches next to me. “The man assaulted you?” His voice is gentle yet firm. English comes easily to him.
“I was pulling him away from Kyle and he hit me.”
“What about the woman? Did she do anything?”
“She was in the passenger seat and shrieking for most of it. When I tried to keep the man from kicking Kyle again, she grabbed my hair.” My scalp still hurts from the vicious attack. I can’t imagine it will be too thrilled next time I brush my hair.
Realizing that Kyle and I are the innocent ones in this whole mess, the cop asks us more questions and lets us go. Kyle and I walk back to my car. I had suggested that I could drive him to the hospital to have his ribs checked out. He waved it off, claiming he’s not hurt.
“Why don’t you come over to my apartment and I’ll deal with your cut?” he says once we reach my car.
I hesitate for a moment. The one-night stand I was considering is now a distant thought. He won’t be in any shape for it to happen. Knowing that is a huge weight temporarily knocked off my shoulders. “Okay.”
I drive us to his apartment and we walk up the first flight of stairs. But as his breathing increases with the exertion, it becomes clear from the grimace on his face that his ribs bother him. How much, I can’t tell.
“What floor are you on?” I ask.
“Sixth.”
“We’re taking the elevator.” I don’t give him a chance to argue. I walk to it and press the up button. The elevator opens soon after and we enter, both lost in thought. The doors reopen on his floor, and we walk down the short hallway to his apartment. He opens the door and lets me in.
