Page 21 of Waiting on Life
There was fear in his eyes, and I hated it. I never wanted people to be afraid of me, but I also didn’t want anyone touching my employees. Touching Kyle.
“Toby, don’t.”
I turned and found Kyle there, his hand still over his nose. “You okay?”
“I think so,” he said. “But I won’t be if you don’t put him down.”
Put him down? Why would I want to do that? I wanted to pound him into paste, stomp on his face. I wanted to put the fear of God into him over what he’d just done.
“I—I called the police,” Scott said.
I gave a terse nod. Something in my head was urging me to put the guy down, but something more, something primal, was driving me on to take revenge for that sound that still echoed in my ears.
“Toby,” came the soft, almost pleading voice beside me. A hand on my arm, the touch gentle, had me closing my eyes and drawing in a deep breath.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked, my voice guttural.
“I’m fine. A bag of ice and I’ll be good as new. I won’t be if you hurt him, though. They might toss you in jail, and I would have to work extra hours, and believe me, you don’t want to see me with bags under my eyes. It’s not a pretty sight.”
He didn’t know how wrong he was. Even with bags under his eyes, Kyle would be the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I pushed the guy away and stepped back. “Get the fuck out of my bar, and don’t come back.”
The three of them said nothing, just scrambled out. As soon as the door closed, I spun and leveled my gaze at Kyle.
“Let me see,” I said.
“It’s fine, really.”
“Kyle, move your damn hands.”
When he did, I gasped. His lip was swollen and had a small gash in it. There was a bit of blood that had mostly crusted over, and it had trickled down his chin, leaving a dark crimson streak. The anger rushed back to me, and I wanted to run after the guy who’d hurt Kyle and show them why it wasn’t a good idea to put his hands where they didn’t belong. Instead, I called out to Scott to grab some ice and a warm washcloth.
“Sit down.”
Kyle turned on rubber band legs and took a step toward the table. If he hadn’t braced himself on another, he would have fallen. I reached out and put my hands around his waist and lifted him off his feet.
“I’m fine,” he protested, but his voice was weak and thready.
“Just lemme do this,” I barked.
A few people offered to help, but I told them it was okay. After Scott brought out what I asked for, I told him to give everyone in the bar a free drink. Deciding not to make this a public spectacle, I carried Kyle to my office, where I sat him on the couch. I got down on my knees and wiped away the red smear from his face. Once I had him cleaned, I got up and grabbed a bar towel from the shelf. I wrapped the ice in the towel and gave it to Kyle with instructions to put it over his nose.
“Give me Pete’s number,” I told him.
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m going to ask him to come get you and take you to the ER.”
He tried to stand, but I put a hand on his shoulder.
“I have to work,” he insisted.
“You have to go get checked out. You’re barely standing, and I’m not taking the chance you’ll pass out in the bar.”
“But—”
“Shut up. Do what I tell you.” His eyes widened. I examined my motives. I wasn’t angry, I was scared. Afraid of what could have happened. Terrified of what might still happen. “Please. Give me his number.”
