Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(4)

I looked at him.

Put my drink down.

Took my motorcycle gloves out of my purse. Slid the first one on. Adjusting the leather so that the armored ridge fit perfectly over my knuckles.

He stared at me. “You got a leather fetish?”

I said nothing. Pulled the other glove on.

“Look,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re into but I don’t do kinky shit. Not getting spanked or whipped or bending over.”

I looked down at him. “You know something?”

“What?”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood.”

His eyes narrowed in anger. “Are you kidding?”

“Nope.”

“You can’t pull that shit.”

“Why not?”

“You came over here, drank my booze, had me take my goddamn clothes off. You think I had you over ’cause I needed the conversation?”

“Where’s your girlfriend?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“Right. Roommate,” I said, my voice dripping with contempt as I nodded at the picture.

“We broke up.”

“I’m not going to screw you, all the same.”

“You’re serious?”

“Serious.”

“All right,” he said. “Then get the hell outta my house, you crazy bitch. Go on, now.”

“And if I don’t?”

His features shifted into a different look. A dangerous look.

A look that said Run for the hills if you know what’s good for you.

I stayed right where I was.

His hands were clenched into fists and his jaw was tight. “I’ve had it with your cock teasing. I don’t know who you are or what you want, and I don’t care.”

“You should,” I said. “That’s the thing. You should care about those things.”

He ignored me. “All I know is that you’re on my property and if you don’t get out in five seconds I’m gonna dump you headfirst on the damn curb with yesterday’s garbage.”

I looked evenly at him. Said nothing.

“I mean it.”

I was quiet.

“Five.”

I didn’t say a word.

“Four. Three. I’m serious.”

Kept looking down at him. Silent.

“Two. Last chance. I mean it.”

I took an even breath in. Blew it out slow. Feeling my pulse starting to hammer in that familiar way. We were almost there.

Almost.

“One.”

I drew in another breath.

Let it out slow.

“Okay, you asked for it.” He started to get up, hands still clenched.

I waited until he was halfway out of the chair. Off-balance, legs bent, weight shifting forward awkwardly.

Then I stepped forward and hit him.

I was a southpaw. Delivered a hard crack with my left hand. A short, twisting punch that had the full weight of my body behind it. Felt my fist explode into his nose with a crunch, the yielding, squishy feeling of cartilage. Different feeling than hitting a jaw or cheekbone or temple. A long time ago I’d gotten sick of busting my knuckles up. The armored motorcycle gloves were designed to hit asphalt at eighty miles an hour. They did wonders. Now I barely even bruised.

He fell back into the chair, clutching his nose with both hands. “Shit,” he said. His voice was muffled. “You broke my nose.”

I stayed where I was. Drew in another breath, let it out. Controlling my breathing, my pulse. Scrapingly aware of every tiny detail like I was on some kind of drug. The world coming in sharp and clear, every movement, every sound. I chose my words carefully. “You ready for another taste? Or do you need a minute?”

That got him back up. This time he rose cautiously. Nose dripping blood steadily out of both nostrils. He ignored the blood, never taking his eyes off me. He didn’t lunge forward this time. Gained his feet, faked a rushing tackle, then stepped forward and threw a massive right hook at my head. The kind of punch that would knock someone into next week and have them wake up wondering what bus they’d stepped in front of.

I slipped it easily.

Came under his arm while he was off-balance, our faces three inches apart. I hit him four times in two seconds. A hard uppercut to the jaw and a short right hook to the side of the head. Just above the ear to destroy his equilibrium. A left to the broken nose and finishing with a nasty hook into his drink-sodden kidneys.

He went down face-first into the coffee table.

I didn’t talk this time. I didn’t wait. I lifted his left arm away from his body and carefully positioned myself. Then I brought up my boot about six inches under his left armpit and drove the heel down as hard as I possibly could. There was a cracking sound. He screamed loudly. I looked at him lying there. No more fight in him. Done.

“You have a landline?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just lay there moaning and holding his side.

“Do you have a landline?” I repeated.

His breath came in gasps. “You broke my damn rib. Oh, God, it hurts.”

This wasn’t getting anywhere. “If you don’t have a landline, can I borrow your cell phone, please?”

“Why?”

“To call you an ambulance.”