Page 2 of Dirty Hand

"Then you’ll have to take us to your house. I'm sure we’ll find some shit we can fence there.”

Fuck. Yeah, he'd admitted to living here. That had been stupid. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

The words were out before he realized it, but once he'd said them, determination settled inside him. Here, out on the street, he still had some measure of safety. After all, this was a residential neighborhood, and if he made enough noise, someone had to come running. At least, he hoped so. But once inside his house? No one would hear.

"No? Let's see if we can convince you."

A subtle nod at the guy behind him, and George was lifted off the ground, a strong arm clamped around his neck. Crap. The guy had at least a hundred pounds on him and a couple of inches. Why did George have to be the classic twink? As long as they were standing, George didn't have a chance against him.

In a move that would've made his jujitsu professor proud, he held on to the arm around his neck, then turned slightly sideways, putting his foot behind the guy's legs and pulled. They went down hard, but the guy who’d attacked him was at the bottom, so he took the brunt of the fall. His grip on George loosened, and George took advantage to peel the arm off his neck, spin it, and pin the guy to the ground.

When he looked up, the guy with the knife was charging. Shit!

"Help! Someone call 911!"

He'd barely gotten the words out when the knife came at his face, and he let go of the man on the ground and rolled away, evading the stabbing move. That had been way too close. He scrambled to his feet, but a kick to his shoulder had him stumbling backward on the concrete. He managed to partially absorb the impact of his fall by rolling with it. Thank fuck for the years of martial arts training. Good, his shoulder still worked.

"I'm being robbed! Call 911!" he screamed.

This might very well be his last chance to make some noise. Across the street, a light went on and then another one. George had to refocus on the two men, who had both gotten to their feet and were now coming at him. He got half up but then was kicked down again with a foot to his other shoulder.

It didn’t hurt, but it did throw him off-balance again. He rolled with it, pushing himself off with his hands into a crouching position. The moonlight reflected on the knife the one guy was still holding, and George had to fight the paralyzing fear that threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn't give in. If he did, he'd be dead.

His only chance was to run. He was in pretty good shape, so hopefully, he could outrun them. They came at him again, both from a different direction, and he jumped to his feet and walked backward as far as he could until his back pressed against a wall. Shit. Now what?

"Time to pay up, faggot."

George clenched his jaw. Being robbed was one thing, but them throwing in homophobic slurs? That pissed him off even more. "What, you think I'm gonna suck your dick or something?"

"Fuck, no, you filthy—"

One second, the guy with the knife had been stepping closer to George, spewing fire. The next, he was on the ground, the knife clattering on the pavement, then being kicked away by a massive boot.

"Cops are on the way," a new voice said, and George breathed out with relief. Someone had heard him cry out for help. Thank fuck.

The guy with the knife was now pinned to the ground with that big boot on his neck. His companion darted away but was snatched by a strong hand that shook him, then slammed him to the ground as well. "You're not going anywhere, motherfucker."

His savior was a giant, at least six foot four, built like a fucking tree, with dark hair that curled in his neck and an unruly beard. Wearing a simple black tight T-shirt with faded jeans and well-used work boots, he seemed to have walked straight out of one of George's porn videos, the ones where big, beefy men fucked the living daylights out of little twinks. So a size difference and a little rough manhandling turned him on. Sue him.

"You okay?"

Fuck, even his voice was rough, like whiskey, cigarettes, and sandpaper mixed together into a gravelly sound that made George sit up and take notice. "Yeah. Your timing was impeccable."

His savior chuckled. "What's your name?"

George wasn't sure if the guy was asking out of genuine interest or checking his mental state, but he didn't care either way. "George. You?"

"I'm Jack."

George pushed himself off the wall, shaking his hands until they stopped trembling. "Thank you for stepping in. I'm pretty sure I would've ended up with a knife between my ribs if you hadn't."

One of the guys on the ground moved, but a swift kick from Jack had him reconsider. No wonder. A punt from those boots had to fucking hurt. They were massive and probably steel-toed.

Jack merely grunted in response to George's remark, and he was spared further conversation when sirens closed in on them and two police cars showed up. Still shaking a little, George walked over to the streets to gesture the cops where they had to be. Four cops piled out, guns drawn.

"You the one who called 911?” one of them asked.

"No, but I’m the one who was getting robbed. This guy stepped in, and he's got both of the robbers pinned to the ground."

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