"Get your FUCKING hands off me."
You'd think, when someone spoke in that tone of voice, a guy would
get the hint.
Back against the wall, one hand fisted in my hair, close enough,
tight enough to hurt. Forcing my chin to lift in an attempt to alleviate the pain, exposing
Hand in my pocket...
You son of a bitch.
You'd think a guy would get the hint.
The asshole just smiles at me. Fucking smiles and pulls harder so
it's a struggle not to wince; digs his hand deeper so he's holding my ass tighter than a
catcher holds the ball in his mitt.
I'd knee him right in the fucking nutsack if he wasn't pressed so
goddamn close, trapping my legs.
No one bothers to step in. I doubt anyone's noticed. Everyone's too
busy laughing it up, slamming down shots until the room spins, talking loudly because alcohol
makes you deaf. Kissing strangers. If anyone does notice what's going on in the dark corner
at the end of the bar, no one has the balls to say anything.
Maybe they think I want it. That I'm playing hard to get.
I can feel my eyes narrowing, but I don't let my hands go for the gun
stashed in the inner pocket of my coat. Something tells me Crawford would be more than a
little upset with me if I put a bullet in the guts of our newest employer's precious fucking
"Come home with me."
It's not a suggestion. His breath reeks of beer, and I wrinkle my
nose in distaste, unable to turn my head away. He leans against me more firmly, and I can't
keep my lips from peeling back in disgust when I feel the hardness that bumps my thigh.
"Come home with me," he repeats, an obvious command underlaid with threats. "No one will
notice we're gone."
"I'm not interested," I say through my teeth.
He gives the hair in his grasp a short, vicious tug, and I hiss at
the sharp pain. "Get the FUCK OFF ME," I snarl, patience about as thin as tissue paper.
That seems to get his attention, at last. The anger in my voice must
be dark enough to cut through a bit of the fogginess in his brain, because the lust in his
eyes turns to anger. Abruptly he smirks, full of confidence and importance. "I thought you
were supposed to do whatever you were told. My godfather hired you to take orders.
So be a good dog-" he accentuates the insult with another hard tug, "and do what I say.
It'll be quick. We don't even have to go home, if you're so damn paranoid about leaving your
freakish partners." He turns his head so that his hot breath falls on my ear, and I shudder
unconsciously. "I'll just bend you over the back of the car while you take it, you goddamn
Nazi. You'll take it and like it, or my godfather's not going to be happy with you."
If there's one thing I don't like, it's being backed into a
It's right under "following orders" on my very long list of personal
This cocksucker came after the wrong man. If he'd wanted to get his
jollies off on what he sees as his godfather's "pets", he should have picked Crawford.
Crawford probably would have bent over for the motherfucker without a murmur of protest, then
calmly zipped up and returned to watch his charge. Mister Leader, Mister Follow the Fucking
Rules of Your Superiors.
I'm not Crawford.
Of course, ripping the nuts off this piece of shit is going to bring
severe consequences down on my head. I'll blame it on the alcohol.
Two seconds later someone solves my problem for me.
A strong hand seizes my unwanted suitor by the shoulder and wrenches
him away from me so quickly he has no time to react before he's being slammed against the
bar. Beer bottles crash to the ground, and some people finally look over to see what's going
on. The bartender starts to come over, then does an abrupt about-face and quickly heads in
the opposite direction.
Farfarello gets that reaction a lot.
"What the fuck--" the guy looks angry. But mostly scared. Ready to
pee his pants scared. Drunken, horrified eyes dart my way. "Get this maniac off me!!"
"Sorry, Schwarz is not ultimately responsible for the actions of its
Berserker," I say calmly, pushing myself from the wall and straightening my coat to hide the
flash of relief I know must have crossed my face. "It's a new clause we added after the last
He can only stare wide-eyed at the stone-faced man pinning him almost
bent backwards over the bar, knife tapping thoughtfully against his quivering throat, right
over the ugly red and orange tie. He tries to lean away from the blade, but there's nowhere
left to go. "Last time?" he manages to squeak.
"Farfarello, legally I have to remind you that Crawford frowns on the
killing of any friends or relations of current clients," I rattle off in a bored tone. "Or
the employer himself, for that matter. And now that that's out of the way, if you're going
to kill him, please do it quietly in the alley out back so that all these nice people don't
throw up the very expensive alcohol they've been drinking all night."
Farfarello doesn't even look up at me. I can tell by how calm he is
that he's more than a little upset. He presses the knife a bit harder to his victim's
throat. "Who told you to touch things that don't belong to you?" he murmurs.
The man begins to drool a little. He's too afraid to swallow and
risk getting his throat nicked. "Whu- whu- what? I--"
"Bent over a car?" Farfarello interrupts thoughtfully, almost to
himself. "Interesting." Without another word he hauls the gibbering man off of the bar and
propels him towards the door.
My assaulter manages one last terrified look towards me, and I offer
an encouraging wave.
A knife up the ass is probably quite a bit more painful than the dick
he'd planned on using, but then, Farfarello was never the sharing, considerate type.