Page 68 of Sugarloaf Ridge Lies

I yank my arm from his hold, causing him to stumble back. He jerks towards me. “Come on, sweet cheeks. Take a load off and tell me ’bout yourself.”

Did he really just call me that?

“No, thanks. I’m with friends.”

He picks up his beer and gulps from it. “Ah, they won’t mind if you come over for a bit.” He grips my arm once more, his hold sure to bruise.

Bile burns its way up the back of my throat. “I said, no.”

“You have a hearin’ problem?” The deep voice drives a chill up my spine. I swing around to face Jerry; red cheeks and dark eyes aimed at the man beside me.

The man releases my arm and points to his own chest. “Who me?” he says, sarcasm in his tone.

Jerry shifts closer, the tips of his boots almost meeting the man’s. “Yeah, you, fucker.”

Shit, shit, shit. If I don’t intervene, this night is going to go to hell in a handbasket, fast. I smooth my handover Jerry’s shoulder to draw his gaze. “Jerry—”

“Listen,” Mr Sleaze barks. “Surely there’s some other slut around here you can set your sights on. This one’s mine.”

“Excuse me?” The high pitch to my voice cuts the air.

Jerry steps between us, shuffling me behind him, then knocks the glass from the man’s hand. The crash of glass on the tiled floor elicits a collective gasp from patrons around us.

“The fuck you say?” Jerry spits.

“Fuck’s your problem?” Mr Sleaze groans, eyeing the damp patch down the front of his shirt. His arm darts out, grazing the side of Jerry’s jaw as he moves, avoiding a direct hit.

“No means no, fuckhead.”

An ‘oof’ escapes the man as Jerry punches him in the gut, then lands a right hook to his cheek.

Arms swing, and the men land a few hits on each another. The sound of fists pounding flesh attacks my ears.

Wanting to intervene, but fearful of being hurt, I step back.The baby.

“Stop!” My hands instinctively move to my stomach.

The man moans and charges Jerry. His big arms hook around his waist and he tackles him to the ground. They wrestle amongst broken glass.

“Alright!” An older man calls from behind the bar, his deep voice commanding the room. “That’s enough.”

It’s like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over them. The men get to their feet, huffing and puffing, fiery gazes locked on each other.

“Crazy redneck piece of shit.” The man grins at Jerry, revealing bloodied teeth.

The crunch of cartilage pops in the air as Jerry’s fist connects with his nose, sending him flying back against the bar.

Jerry points his finger at the guy’s heaving chest. “If I fuckin’ see you near her again, you won’t be walkin’ like you are now.”

The older man who yelled out before, lunges between them and orders Mr Sleaze outside. From the look of his polo shirt bearing the Royal Mail Hotel logo, and given his age and how younger staff surround him, he must be the manager. He grits his teeth and steps up to Jerry. “You’ve run out of chances, McAllister. I’ve gotta call this in.”

Jerry swipes above his left eye as red spills into his vision. He simply nods.

The manager shakes his head and walks off.

I place my hand on Jerry’s arm. “That cut’s deep.”

“I’ll live.” He sweeps his hand over the cut, coating his fingers with red.

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