Page 11 of Body Check
There’s no one on the front lawn, but it’s easy to see why. The rain has started back up again, and it’s coming down in sheets.
Fuck.
My chances of finding her just went from slim to none. Ducking back inside, I make my way back through the house until I get to the back deck. I doubt she returned to the scene of the crime, but there’s a chance those idiots saw which direction she went. By the time I make it all the way to the sliding glass door and out to the patio, it’s empty.
I’m halfway across the lawn when I see a flash of white. Her paper dress is ruined, and she’s clicking her key fob and opening her car door. I call out in a pathetic attempt to check on her, even though I have no right. She freezes for a moment, and I’m ready to sprint down the hill to the street where her car is parked. But instead of looking in the direction of my voice, she ducks into her car.
Shit. She probably thinks I’m one of the dickheads who was giving her a hard time.
I’m sure as hell not, but I’m going to find those she’s nowhere in sight. But neither are they.
I don’t know this girl, and I don’t know the details of what happened. The smart thing would be to head upstairs and play video games until I crash, just like I’d intended to earlier.
Good thing nobody ever called me a genius.
Don’t get me wrong. I fully intend to crash on my bed and play some video games before I fall asleep, but I’ve got a quick detour to make first.
Entering the party for what better be the final fucking time tonight, I scan the crowd once again. This time, though, I’m not looking for a gorgeous woman. I’m looking for the bully who sent her running.
The crowd is thick with bodies, simply because the weather sent everybody inside. I spot Blue in the distance, a goofy smile on his face. He’s so wasted that if he has much more to drink, he’ll be spending the night praying to the porcelain gods. Thank fuck we don’t have to share a bathroom.
Mickey and Ollie are slumped against the far wall looking equally annoyed. I’m not sure what crawled up the asses of my perpetually energized teammates, but that’s not my problem. For once, at least, Mickey’s glaring daggers at someone other than me. I didn’t know that was possible, but I follow his line of sight…and fucking hell. What do you know? I may have just found the one thing Mick and I have in common: our hatred for the barechested dudebro in beer shorts.
I don’t know what Mickey’s beef with this guy is, but I don’t give a shit. I’m not just going to stand around and shoot nasty looks at him, I’m going to take action.
In a few seconds, I’m halfway across the room and face-to-face with Lanza, the numbnuts who likes to run his mouth and thinks it’s public fucking duty to broadcast his opinion of other peoples’ bodies.
If Blue weren’t drunk off his ass, I’d recruit his help. He could be the good cop to my bad cop. I’d let my buddy lay on the charm before I went in for the kill. But I’m on my own for this one, so I get straight to the point. I waste no time on niceties or introductions, unless you count the way my palms push against his chest as I shove him.
“What the fuck, dude?” he bellows.
“What did you say to her?” I ask, my voice low and lethal as I apply more pressure.
“Get your damn hands off me,” he grounds out.
“No,” I reply. “Now tell me what the hell you said to her.”
“Who the hell are you talking about?” He pushes back against me, so I return the favor, forcing him to step back closer to the wall. He’s not a small guy, but I’ve got the advantage of both surprise and anger. Plus, it’s a known fact that small-minded dickheads are the weakest fuckers on the planet.
“Talked shit on a lot of women lately?” I ask, curling my left hand into a fist. “Let me refresh your memory. On secondthought, no. I don’t feel like talking anymore.” Drawing my shoulder back, I launch my arm forward, but it never connects with his face.
What the hell?
Mickey’s bear-hugging me from behind, effectively stopping me from teaching this asshat a lesson about keeping his mouth shut. “Get the fuck off me,” I snarl at my teammate.
“Then calm the fuck down,” Mickey says, getting right in my face.
Oh, the irony. The guy who can’t stand still for more than ten seconds is telling me to calm down? The nutjob who fucking bounces around the house like he’s got pogo sticks for legs wants me to chill out? I don’t fucking think so, but I’ll deal with his ass after I kick Lanza’s.
“Let me go right this fucking second or I’ll break your arm before I break his face,” I toss back, but ot’s no damn use. Deano left his post at the bar to haul Lanza out of here. Blood and adrenaline are pumping through my body, and I’m damn near vibrating with anger. “Ollie,” I say, dismissing Mickey with a glare and going straight to the guy leading the team. “Give me two minutes with that dickhead. There was a wo?—”
I never finish my sentence, though, because I’m interrupted by the moan of the mechanical bull Ollie rented. I thought that thing died a painful death when Dean poured a cocktail down its non-existent throat and fried its circuits. Blue must have healing powers, though, because when he saddled the beast, it started to wail. We all watch in horror as it picks up speed and bucks Blue into the crowd. He lands with a thud on the end of the sofa, but the way he’s groaning tells me that brief ride did him in. By my calculations, I’ve got maybe thirty seconds until he?—.
Fuck.
The first thing I hear is the crash of the bottle of Jack he was holding. It shatters the instant it hits the floor. The second sound is the all too familiar refrain of my best buddy losing his lunch.
The guy’s a puker. He always has been. A few too many beers or a gory scene in a horror film, and the result is the same.
