Page 27 of Stranger to Love

“Last call!” Mia shouted, ringing the massive brass bell.

The last fifteen minutes were a blur of absolute hell—a desperate tidal wave of drunks scrambling for a final fix. To my surprise, Flannel Shirt and her crew left without ordering. She came up to the bar just to place her empty glasses down, offering a soft smile. “Thanks.”

Then, she reached out and squeezed my forearm before turning to leave. And what, Flannel, was that?

I watched them head up the stairs. The taller guy threw a possessive arm around her shoulders, looking back to shoot me a glare as if I’d just groped his girl. She touched me, dude. Chill out.

Finally, Steve kicked the last drunks out, and the newbies were strapped with brushes to clear the destruction on the floor. At exactly 1:30 a.m., I threw my bag over my shoulder and walked up the steps with Mia.

Outside, the street was slick with fresh rain. Down the road, I heard the distinct, obnoxious growl of an exhaust. Sam. He pulled up in his stupid sports car right on the double yellow lines, rolling down the window like he thought he was James Bond. He nodded at me with a sickening grin. “Alex.”

“Dickhead,” I greeted him. He chuckled as if I was joking and not just openly insulting him.

Mia finished locking up, turning to plant a quick kiss on my cheek. She looked at Sam, then back to me. “We can give you a lift. You can sit on my lap.”

I rolled my eyes. “No amount of money could get me in that car.”

“Not even if I sit on your lap?” she teased.

Before I could reply, Sam shouted, “Fuck yeah!”

Urgh, straight men. I shot Mia a judgmental look, and she just shrugged, kissing my cheek again. “Next time,” she winked, sliding into the passenger seat. Sam sped off like he’d happily mow down any pedestrian in his way.

I sighed, taking a final glance at the street before turning the corner toward home.

Without warning, I was violently thrown straight into the brick wall. The impact knocked the wind right out of me. I staggered, my vision spotting as I tried to pull myself up.

“What the fuck?” I yelled out blindly into the darkness.

A tall figure lunged forward, slamming me hard back against the brick. As the dim streetlight illuminated his face, my blood ran cold. It was the tall guy—Flannel Shirt’s boyfriend.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he growled, stepping so close his hot, beer-laced breath brushed against my cheek.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I’d been jumped before, but this guy was massive. The top of my head barely reached the middle of his chest, my neck craning as I tried to meet his eyes. Trying to sound calmer than I felt, I gripped his wrists. “The fuck are you talking about?”

He spat at my feet. “You think a dyke like you can steal my missus?”

I fucking hated when men used that word. I tried to push him away, but he didn’t budge. “I’m not trying to steal anyone,” I snapped, tightening my grip. “Seriously, let go of me.”

He grinned, a sickening look in his eye, and raised a heavy fist.

It happened so fast I barely processed it. One second his fist was coming at me; the next, he was slamming hard onto the wet pavement.

My head spun. I stared, wide-eyed, as a familiar voice cut through the dark alleyway like broken glass. Cold, sharp, and utterly commanding.

“Run, or I break your arm. Choose.”

I stumbled along the wall, my breath ragged. My vision finally cleared to reveal Dr. Carter, draped in her dark trench coat, standing over the towering clubber. She had his arm locked behind his back in a brutal, clinical grip that looked centimetres away from dislocating his shoulder.

The guy sputtered, pinning his face to the wet ground. “Who the hell are you? Get off me, you fucking bitch!”

Dr. Carter applied a fraction more pressure, eliciting a choked cry from him. “The correct answer was ‘Run.’ Do it now.”

She released him, shoving him roughly forward. The guy scrambled up, whimpering, clutching his shoulder, before sprinting blindly around the corner into the dark.

Dr. Carter didn’t spare him a second glance. She turned immediately to me, her composure absolute despite having just physically subdued a man twice her size in an alleyway after 1:30 a.m.

“Are you hurt, Alex?” she demanded, her voice low.