Drop Dead Sexy(17)

After I did a lightning quick clean up, I left the bathroom. As I started across the floor, a fleshy hand grabbed hold of one of my butt cheeks. “Hey sugar, I saw you dancin’ earlier. Let’s you and me take a turn.”

I tried prying his arm off, but it was locked in a viselike grip. Forcing a smile to my face, I said, “That’s sweet of you to ask, but I have to say no.”

His face clouded over. “You musta mistaken me. I wasn’t askin’. I was tellin’.”

When I opened my mouth in protest, he covered my lips with his, assaulting my senses with the taste of someone who drank an ashtray. I gagged when he thrust his tongue into my mouth.

With all the strength I had in me, I shoved him away. “I said no.”

“And I don’t give a shit, girlie. You’re gonna give me the same lovin’ you were givin’ that highbrow dude.”

My gaze frantically spun around the room, desperately seeking Catcher. When I didn’t see him, I tried controlling my breathing as the panic rose in me. I had to do something. I couldn’t just let this dickhead manhandle me and force me to “give him lovin’.” I’d been through self-defense training for f*ck’s sake. I wasn’t some shrinking violet.

I’d just formulated a plan to rage war on his balls when Catcher appeared out of thin air.

“Let her go,” he demanded.

“Fuck you,” the redneck replied as he tightened his hold on me.

Catcher’s expression was murderous. “Trust me, buddy. This isn’t a fight you want to pick.”

The redneck sneered at Catcher. “I got a good hundred pounds on you, * boy.”

Catcher’s anger visibly swelled at being called a *. The next thing I knew he was swinging his fist into the redneck’s face. The force momentarily took him off guard, and I was able to pry myself out of his stronghold. “Olivia, get the hell out of here!” Catcher yelled.

Before I could argue that I wasn’t leaving him to get beaten by this Neanderthal, the redneck came back with a punch to Catcher’s head. The redneck’s Confederate flag ring split open Catcher’s eyebrow, and blood splattered onto my dress. Catcher didn’t have a chance to recover before the redneck captured him in a chokehold.

“FIGHT!” someone shouted. The next thing I knew everyone was kung fu fighting. Okay, maybe not. But the entire place erupted into strangers kicking and gouging each other while glasses and bottles were being hurled through the air.

As Catcher choked and sputtered, I knew I had to do something, and that wasn’t calling 911. I picked up one of the rickety chairs and smashed it across the redneck’s back. “Fucking hell!” he shouted as pieces of splintered wood rained down on the floor.

While the redneck staggered back, I grabbed one of the sticks off the pool table. When the redneck whirled around, I jabbed him in the crotch with the stick like I was a native islander spearing a fish. He squealed before falling to his knees. I then lobbed him in the back of the head. When I saw I had knocked him out, I quickly dropped down beside him.

“What the hell are you doing?” Catcher asked hoarsely, as he rubbed his throat.

“Checking his pulse.” Thankfully, he still had one, so killing a redneck at the Rusty Ho wouldn’t stain my otherwise perfect record. Even though it would have been self-defense, my conscience still would have eaten me alive.

Catcher grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to my feet. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”

“Sounds good to me.”

He drew me to his side and began leading us through the fighting fray. “Duck!” he cried. A beer mug narrowly missed us before smashing into the bar. We had to weave and bob like a cobra to miss getting punched or jabbed. On the way out, Catcher grabbed his jacket and briefcase.

When we got outside into the parking lot, I exhaled the breath I’d been holding. Catcher started leading me to his car when I tugged on his arm. “No,” I protested.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Wherever we’re going next, I’m going there in my own car. That way I can come and go as I please.”

Catcher rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Fucking feminists.” At the sound of busting glass, we both whirled around. A man lay cut and bleeding on the pavement from where he had been thrown through one of the windows. “Where’s your car?” Catcher asked, never taking his eyes off the man.

“Two rows over.”

After unlocking the driver’s side door on his car, he reached into the side console and took out a gun. When I stared wide-eyed at him, he gave me a tight smile. “In case we need a little extra protection on the way to your car.”

We had to step over the man on the ground. Thankfully, he was unconscious, so he didn’t pose any threat. The last thing we needed was to have a rumble in the parking lot.

“Follow me. I’m staying at a Holiday Inn about a mile down the road.”

“Okay.” After Catcher put me in the car, I locked the doors. While he started back to his car, I quickly cranked up. Before I could back up, a chair came flying out of the broken window and narrowly missed hitting my hood. With shaking hands, I threw the car in reverse and squealed out of the parking space. I felt a little relief at the sight of Catcher’s taillights a few feet in front of me. He put the pedal to the metal, and we thankfully left the Rusty Ho in our dust.