I shrugged and moved past her so that I could go put a stop to the impending disaster. The redhead had finally gotten her sluggish wits in gear and was now actively struggling in the frat boy’s hold.
“It’s just part of the job.”
Though I had to admit that when the boss, Rome Archer, mentioned he had an old platoon buddy that was getting ready to come back home and was gonna need something to do until he got his feet under him, I was relieved that my time banging heads together when the crowd got rowdy on the weekends was going to come to an end. I had a criminal record. A long, colorful criminal record, and anytime I put my hands on another human being in any kind of violent way, I automatically saw pages and pages getting tacked onto it. Like so much from my life before I had died on that hospital table, it was something from my past that would always define me and hold me down.
Dixie called to me over the bar as I started to weave my way through the crowd: “You’re too pretty to put that face in front of a flying fist, Asa. Be careful.”
Frat Boy was holding his face while blood rushed out between his fingers as he covered his nose. The redhead was being held by two other guys, one with each wrist locked down as she glared at the group of men surrounding her. She was tall and in ridiculously good shape, but none of these inebriated guys would have any clue as to why. All they saw was a feisty girl that was wasted and had been enticing them all night long, whether it had been intentional or not. And of course, now that she had made one of them bleed, had unmanned him in front of an entire barful of spectators, it was clearly about to get nasty. It was one thing to get your ass handed to you by a girl. It was an entirely different thing to get your ass handed to you by a girl that looked like she should be walking a runway wearing fuck-me stilettos. It also didn’t help save face for the guy that she had on bright yellow pants that hugged her curves just right and breasts that it should be illegal to ever cover up.
In half of a heartbeat she was in the middle of a tug-of-war between the two guys holding her arms and I could see the anger building in the watery eyes of the guy whose nose she had probably broken.
I gave him a warning look. Dixie was right: I was pretty, too pretty to be as ugly as I was on the inside, but to counteract the deceptive beauty of my face, I was also big and had been in trouble since the day I took my first breath. So I generally had a way of letting an opponent know they were going to be on the losing end of a confrontation with me. The bleeder took a step back as I manhandled the guy closest to me off of the redhead’s arm. He grunted and swore at me, mostly because as soon as she was free and had enough leverage, she rammed her knee right into the guy’s unprotected balls, doubling him over.
I shook my head at her as she turned and sloppily swung at the remaining guy clutching her wrist.
“Royal. Knock it off.”
She ignored me as the band picked up a quick tempo cover of Shooter Jennings’s “A Hard Lesson to Learn,” and went into full-on attack mode.
Now, I fully believed there was nothing wrong with a woman defending herself against unwanted advances, and it was obvious she didn’t want this guy’s hands on her anymore. But this particular girl, this surprising young woman that just happened to look like a supermodel, was actually a member of the Denver police force, and I knew she could cause serious damage even in her less than sober state. I couldn’t allow that. Not just because the Bar would be liable, but also because I didn’t want her to do something that could ultimately end up costing her her job.
I reached around Royal and got my hand on the fingers locked on her wrist as she wiggled and swung wildly at her captor. Prying his fingers free was a task made even more difficult by the fact I kept having to duck to avoid an elbow in the face or the back of her fist on the backswing. She was quick and strong, something that the guy holding her finally realized as she landed a solid punch to one of his temples. He suddenly let go and stumbled back as I trapped her flailing arms to her sides and pulled her back to my chest. I bent just a little so I could whisper in her ear, “Calm down, Red.”
We both stared at the guy that had grabbed her, and I tried not to notice the way her really spectacular rack was rising and falling right above the arm I had locked across her rib cage. Even when I tried to help out, all those old instincts burned bright and hot right under the surface. I wanted to touch her in an entirely unhelpful way.
“She assaulted me.” He sounded like a disgruntled toddler that had lost his favorite toy to a bigger kid on the playground.
I nodded and made sure the hills of Kentucky were thick in my voice when I told him, “She sure did. But not until you put your hands on her.” Good-ol’-boy charm worked wonders to calm down a volatile situation. I think it made people think I didn’t have enough smarts to be any kind of real threat despite my size.