Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(3)

He shuddered and looked around the still-crowded station. He’d been here for several hours waiting for his next connection. With holiday travel in full swing, Adam had known he wouldn’t have managed to hop a seat on a flight in time to get to Pendleton by Monday. Maybe if he’d sobered up sooner. No matter. This weekend, the clientele in bus stations better suited his foul mood. They wouldn’t bother him and he f*cking sure wouldn’t bother them. The last thing he wanted right now was a chatty companion asking if he was headed home to be with family.

He had no family anymore.

Adam leaned forward and held his aching head in his hands. He sure as hell hoped he’d lose the aftereffects of this binge before he got back on base. The colonel would bust his chops if he saw him like this. Adam knew he had a lot of eager young men and women looking to him to set an example, too.

He just didn’t give a shit about anything or anyone right now, and didn’t know when he would again.

“Can I get you something to eat?”

Adam looked up, squinting at the throbbing in his temples caused by the fluorescent lighting. Yeah, blame the lights. He saw a lanky black man in pimped-out orange pants and a Robin’s egg-blue shirt talking to a teenage girl seated across from him. She must have just sat down a few minutes ago, because he’d have noticed her before with her spiked neon pink hair and the most god-awful amount of makeup around her eyes.

Despite the bravado of her flashy hairstyle and all-black Goth outfit, her wide-eyed gaze darted to the pimp, then away. When he slid into the empty seat next to her, she leaned away from him in small degrees, as if not wanting to offend him by just getting up and moving. When the dickwad reached out to touch her hair, she squeezed her blue eyes shut and shrank into the chair.

Little girl lost.

Don’t let him scare you.

Adam’s attention shifted to the dickwad. No, Dickwad—with a capital D.

“No, thanks. I already ate,” she answered in a high-pitched squeak.

Don’t be polite. Tell him to go f*ck himself, hon.

“How about a drink? There’s a liquor store around the corner.” He took her elbow, and she shook him off.

“No!”

Better.

“Thanks, anyway, but I’m waiting for my bus to New York.”

Aw, honey, don’t go and tell him your plans.

“That where you live?”

“No. I, um, have a job waiting.” She looked away.

Shit. A runaway. The girl barely looked fifteen under all that makeup. Adam sat up straighter, ignoring the pounding in his head. If that sorry bastard touched her again, he’d ice him like a salmon.

Don’t forget, you have your own bus to catch. He didn’t need to be playing hero and winding up doing jail time for assaulting the jerk.

The runaway pulled her backpack closer to her chest and tried to scoot to the other side of her chair, but the armrest prevented her escape. Like a shark, the pimp moved in on her—the most vulnerable prey he could find here on the night before Thanksgiving.

Her hand shaking, she unzipped a pouch in the pack and pulled out a book. The cover showed a vampire whose fangs were about to pierce the neck of some half-dressed busty woman who looked like she was about to come. While the runaway pretended to read, she cast nervous glances at Dickwad. He just continued to stare at her, trying to intimidate her. Succeeding, too. When the pimp reached out to stroke her hair again, she pulled away.

“Please, leave me alone.”

Aw, f*ck, don’t let him see you cry. The tears welling in her eyes tore Adam’s guts out. He’d never been able to see a woman cry. Girls either, for that matter.

The pimp hooked his hand around her arm just above the elbow and tried to force her to her feet. “Come on, baby. Let’s get outta here.”

Anger boiled over in Adam, a sensation he’d been trying to medicate against for weeks. Clenching his fists, he took a deep, slow breath. He fought the need to pummel Dickwad into the ground. Hell, as hung-over as he was, Adam wondered if he’d even be able to take the prick down.

But he’d love the chance to work off some of his anger. Damned if he’d sit and watch that shithead harass a little girl—or worse. Adam stood and took a step toward them, towering over the man.

“I think the young lady asked you to f—” remembering the young girl, he reminded himself to watch his language, “—get lost.”

The pimp looked him up and down. “Fuck off, soldier boy. Get your own ho.”

Adam’s hands snaked out to lift the skinny little prick out of the seat like a sack of potato chips. Obviously Dickwad had no such filter on his salty language. He threw him across the room and watched with satisfaction as the perv slid until he landed against the ticket counter, far from the girl. Adam stood with legs apart, braced for Dickwad to make a move against him.

Come on, punk. He’d love the chance to pummel the prick within an inch of his sorry-assed life. Adam clenched and unclenched his fists his breathing fast and shallow.

Waiting.

When the pimp stood up, he brushed himself off, and slunk toward the exit muttering something about evening up the odds. Adam turned to look down at the girl. Damn. Her hands were shaking so badly, he thought she’d pull her book apart at the seams.

Scared to death.

*

Don’t puke, Karla. Just don’t puke.