Page 3 of Fighting Fate
Frank laughs, taking his hand away. “We’re…Jesus, no.”
“I see,” twat features chuckles, looking down at me with that fucking wonky grin that matches his wonky nose. I don’t know him, but I hate him already, and then he says, “It’s like that, huh?”
“Like what exactly?” Annoyance pushes me to my feet.
Now that I’m standing, he seems even taller. At five foot seven and in four-inch heels, it’s rare that a man is taller than me. But this guy? He has at least another three, maybe four inches on my heels. Up here, his shoulders are broader than his tapered lower body made them look. Still, he’s not exactly a pretty picture to look at.
It doesn’t stop all the girls from leaving puddles as they walk past. I’m surprised they’re not slipping to their arses as they sashay away. Suddenly, the atmosphere becomes heavier and darker. It’s got nothing to do with the lights dimming as the big screens come on and the music booms louder, and everything to do with him and how we’re standing so close.
Motherfucker is like a Dementor, sucking all the good vibes out of me. Still, I can’t tear my gaze from his. Dark eyes sparkle with all the lights beaming around us.
“Fiery,” he laughs, low and gravelly in his American drawl. It’s more brash than Frank’s, making him sound like an East Coast City boy rather than a West Coast Hollywooder.
“Wanker,” I retort, turning to scowl at Frank. “I need a drink. Pronto.”
I don’t even know where the bar is, but I push past the oaf without a glance up at him. While my head is cursing him to the depths of hell, my heart is pounding hard enough in my chest that I’m struggling to catch my breath.
“You keep the worst company,” I tell Frank with a groan as we reach the private bar. When he stares at me pointedly, I add, “Barring me. I’m fucking amazing.”
Once Frank has ordered drinks, he turns to look at me with an assessing narrowing of his eyes. “Rory is a cool guy.”
“Yeah, and an ugly bastard.” Not exactly my best retort or insult, but it’s too late to back down.
“He’s the prettiest middleweight champion around.”
“Whatever,” I snap, taking the large rum and Coke the bartender gives me.
It’s going to be a long night, and as I have a sip of my drink, the only thing I can think is that I’m going to need a lot more of these.