Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
It happens so fast that it takes me a moment to understand that what’s going on isn’t what I planned for. I was distracted, one hand at my fly. The second man must’ve been behind me and I didn’t notice. He’s squat and heavily muscled, but I could definitely take him one-on-one. Could probably take either of them one-on-one, but the hits are coming too fast, and when a hard shove sends my face into the greasy brick and then me to the ground, I can’t quite get my feet under me again. And maybe I don’t try that hard. When they start kicking me, I close my eyes because the alley is spinning and focus on each distinct point of impact, each throbbing, stinging locus of hurt.
Like a sick meditation, I can lose myself inside the pain, make it bigger than I am, pull it around me like a blanket.
Then someone rips the blanket away and my eyes jerk open. There’s a third guy, and for a moment I panic. But he’s pulled the other two off me and is—Jesus, he’s systematically taking them apart. He fights dirty, but every motion is perfectly controlled, as if he were making a science of hitting exactly as hard as is necessary to take these guys down and not one bit harder. I’ve been in a lot of fights and seen even more, but I’ve rarely seen anything like this level of control. His face is expressionless and he’s totally silent. He shoves the men down the alley and they scamper off like rats. I close my eyes and try to sink back down into my body, hoping that when I open my eyes, the alley will be empty just like all the other times.
The guy grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me up. His grip is unbreakable, but I try anyway because sitting up doesn’t agree with my spinning head.
“Get the fuck off.” I try to push against him, but he may as well be the brick wall behind me for all that he gives. Irritation is quickly overshadowed by the humiliating impulse to puke, and I shove at him again.
“Get off.” He doesn’t let go, just keeps holding me steady with that maddening pressure: not tight enough to hurt me, not loose enough to let me go.
“Oh fuck,” I groan after I’ve puked my guts out against the wall. I twisted at the last minute and avoided vomiting on the guy. Mostly. His fault, though, since he wouldn’t let me go. Now that I’ve thrown up, the shame hits. I’m in a filthy alley where I followed a complete stranger in the hopes of getting my dick sucked. I got the ever-loving crap kicked out of me and was too wasted to fight back. I got rescued by some hulking giant who—shit—may actually be mute. And to say thanks? I puked on him. Heat rises in my cheeks and throat, and I need to get the hell away.
Suddenly, I become aware of my breathing and that thing happens where I can’t quite take a deep breath. I scramble to my knees and hunch my shoulders, willing my lungs to expand that last little bit, but the more I pay attention to it, the worse it gets.
“Is there blood in it?” The man’s voice is low and detached.
“Huh?”
“The vomit. Is there blood in it?” He leans down to look at the puke on the ground, nodding once at whatever he sees. He slides a hand under my shirt and pulls it up.
“The fuck?” I say, pushing him away again. He’s looking at where they kicked me, leaning me forward to examine my back and sides.
“You a doctor or something?”
He shakes his head, then slowly pulls me up to a standing position.
“I’ll call you a cab,” he says, propping me against the wall like a bike or a piece of furniture, one arm loosely across my chest.
“Uh, no, man, I’m fine.”
He snorts. And finally looks at me. Well, looks down at me. Dude’s even taller than I thought when I saw him in the bar. And bulky with muscle. He has shoulder-length brown hair, and his left eyebrow is broken by scars, the kind you usually see when someone’s taken a bottle to the face. His mouth is grim and his brown eyes are sharp, and he’s looking at me with a combination of amusement and scorn that immediately pisses me off. Like he knows me or some shit.
“You’re wasted,” he says. “Those guys would’ve killed you.” My brain shies away from this piece of information and focuses back on my breathing. As I try to get a deep breath, the edge of panic is back. I know I can get enough air in, but the sensation freaks me out every time. Like at any moment I could drown where I stand.