Read Online Fight by Kelly Wyre - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelly Wyre
Tags: Contemporary, Lgbt
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were taking turns snorting lines. It was always nice to see something familiar. The men glanced at Fury, dismissed him, and turned granite eyes on Nathan. Trying to remain businesslike, Nathan waited while Fury went to the bar and spoke to an Amazonian woman covered in piercing metal and colorful tattoos.
“Where the hell is my damned drink?” barked a man leaning heavily against the bar next to a couple of his equally drunken buddies.
The bartender gave the patron the middle finger, all her attention on Fury, who bent down to speak intimately in her ear. Nathan cursed at himself for the pang of jealousy. The woman shot a smirk in Nathan’s direction. She shook her head. Neither did anything for Nathan’s sense of unease.
“Bitch, I ain’t got all night!” yelled the belligerent man.
“You want a fuckin’ whiskey?” the woman barked. She grabbed a bottle, and pure, blind fear seized Nathan by the short hairs.
“Here.” She slammed the bottle down on the man’s hand. It crunched. He howled in rage, fumbling at his belt line. The woman pulled her weapon faster, a curved knife that was more sword, and the man stopped reaching for his piece when she wrestled him closer by the hair and pressed the curved steel to his pulse.
Nathan expected gunfire, but what he heard were cheers. “Give ’em hell!” somebody bellowed.
Meanwhile, the asshole’s friend pushed away from the bar. Fury put a fist in that man’s face. One hit, like a wrecking ball striking a rag doll, and blood sprayed. The man went down, boneless, and Fury grabbed the third guy by the balls and throat when the guy ran at him.
“Take ’im to the ring!” a different somebody screamed, but Fury didn’t haul the man toward the fighting circle. Instead, Fury spun, using momentum and the extra hundred pounds he had on the would-be assailant, and the third guy went flying toward the front door. Somehow, Ed the magazine reader was there to greet the guy, who landed in a groaning heap. Ed calmly dragged the man across the threshold.
“Fury, baby, I got this,” the bartender purred at volume, her knife still against the first man’s jugular. Fury took two stalking steps closer anyway.
“Fury, now, last time you got all worked up, we had dead people. You want to be dead people, asshole?” she asked the drunk man trying to swallow without further cutting his throat. He didn’t say anything. “Didn’t think so,” the bartender said. “Fury, here, he got issues. You don’t want any piece a those issues. And you sure as fuck don’t want any a mine.” She let the guy go with a shove. “Now get the fuck out ’fore we stop playin’ nice.”
The man not passed out and bleeding on the floor staggered toward the door. Everything had happened so fast that Nathan only now noticed that the men standing around the tables had stopped snorting lines and feeling up their women to stare at the troublemakers, their hands disappearing under their jackets or behind their backs. They let the guy with the bleeding neck go without incident, and Nathan wanted to pass out in relief, but he didn’t get the chance.
“Fury,” admonished a nondescript man, who had appeared from the office to Nathan’s right and who stood between the two armed guards. “You fuckin’ up my customers, again?”
“They were fuckin’ with Hellabeth,” Fury replied. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stepped closer to Nathan.
The man snorted. “You mean you and she were fuckin’ with them.”
“Damn right,” Hellabeth, the bartender, crowed. She held up a bottle of whiskey and drank directly from it. A line of men slammed glasses down on the bar, and she sloshed more drink into their cups.
The office guy laughed, and as though on cue, the people at the tables went back to their business. Nobody made any move for the drunk man Fury’d knocked out cold; the medic still sat across the room in his chair, the front legs lifted off the ground.
Fury gestured
“Where the hell is my damned drink?” barked a man leaning heavily against the bar next to a couple of his equally drunken buddies.
The bartender gave the patron the middle finger, all her attention on Fury, who bent down to speak intimately in her ear. Nathan cursed at himself for the pang of jealousy. The woman shot a smirk in Nathan’s direction. She shook her head. Neither did anything for Nathan’s sense of unease.
“Bitch, I ain’t got all night!” yelled the belligerent man.
“You want a fuckin’ whiskey?” the woman barked. She grabbed a bottle, and pure, blind fear seized Nathan by the short hairs.
“Here.” She slammed the bottle down on the man’s hand. It crunched. He howled in rage, fumbling at his belt line. The woman pulled her weapon faster, a curved knife that was more sword, and the man stopped reaching for his piece when she wrestled him closer by the hair and pressed the curved steel to his pulse.
Nathan expected gunfire, but what he heard were cheers. “Give ’em hell!” somebody bellowed.
Meanwhile, the asshole’s friend pushed away from the bar. Fury put a fist in that man’s face. One hit, like a wrecking ball striking a rag doll, and blood sprayed. The man went down, boneless, and Fury grabbed the third guy by the balls and throat when the guy ran at him.
“Take ’im to the ring!” a different somebody screamed, but Fury didn’t haul the man toward the fighting circle. Instead, Fury spun, using momentum and the extra hundred pounds he had on the would-be assailant, and the third guy went flying toward the front door. Somehow, Ed the magazine reader was there to greet the guy, who landed in a groaning heap. Ed calmly dragged the man across the threshold.
“Fury, baby, I got this,” the bartender purred at volume, her knife still against the first man’s jugular. Fury took two stalking steps closer anyway.
“Fury, now, last time you got all worked up, we had dead people. You want to be dead people, asshole?” she asked the drunk man trying to swallow without further cutting his throat. He didn’t say anything. “Didn’t think so,” the bartender said. “Fury, here, he got issues. You don’t want any piece a those issues. And you sure as fuck don’t want any a mine.” She let the guy go with a shove. “Now get the fuck out ’fore we stop playin’ nice.”
The man not passed out and bleeding on the floor staggered toward the door. Everything had happened so fast that Nathan only now noticed that the men standing around the tables had stopped snorting lines and feeling up their women to stare at the troublemakers, their hands disappearing under their jackets or behind their backs. They let the guy with the bleeding neck go without incident, and Nathan wanted to pass out in relief, but he didn’t get the chance.
“Fury,” admonished a nondescript man, who had appeared from the office to Nathan’s right and who stood between the two armed guards. “You fuckin’ up my customers, again?”
“They were fuckin’ with Hellabeth,” Fury replied. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stepped closer to Nathan.
The man snorted. “You mean you and she were fuckin’ with them.”
“Damn right,” Hellabeth, the bartender, crowed. She held up a bottle of whiskey and drank directly from it. A line of men slammed glasses down on the bar, and she sloshed more drink into their cups.
The office guy laughed, and as though on cue, the people at the tables went back to their business. Nobody made any move for the drunk man Fury’d knocked out cold; the medic still sat across the room in his chair, the front legs lifted off the ground.
Fury gestured
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