Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
“Yeah, ‘cause they’re not fucking faggots!” Big Nose yells.
“Can’t we have one fucking bar without this bullshit?” His skinnier buddy complains, as if straight people are some persecuted minority.
But I lose it when he throws a glass of beer at us. It shatters at Clyde’s feet, and the very idea that it could have hit him turns me into a raging bull.
I walk straight at him, and I’m baffled when I see him lean back, as if my reaction is in any way surprising. I don’t look like someone who backs down from a fight. Did he assume I would because I’m into men? Because he chastised me for spoiling his night out by kissing the guy I like?
I’m close when he breaks out of his stupor and attempts to punch me, but I shove his arm off course, grab his lank hair, and slam his face into the nearest table once. Twice. Thrice. When I let go, he slips to the floor, leaving behind a red smear.
“You still have something to say?” I growl at the other guy, turning just in time to have a chair smashed against me.
“Road!” Clyde yells, but it’s too late.
The blow hurts, and I’m thrown to the side, but I instantly seek my next target. As soon as I turn, I spot Clyde grabbing the chair out of the man’s hands. He then slams it against the fucker time and time again as he screams.
I don’t have time to admire my beautiful beast in action, because I’m busy dodging a punch in the gut. I twist like the brawl is some violent ballet, and kick my would-be attacker in the nuts.
I don’t know why those two other guys have decided to fight us too, but it doesn’t matter. Blood is thudding in my ears, because tonight, I will be inside Clyde. What are a few bruises, and a split lip in the face of that?
I send bastard number one to the floor, ready to help my—my who? Who is Clyde to me, really? Are we… dating? Is this a date? Because if it is, then it’s weirdly appropriate that we’ve ended up in a brawl.
Clyde doesn’t need my help and I almost high-five him when he throws his own opponent onto the table, which collapses along with him. I’m about to compliment his technique when the unmistakable click of a shotgun makes me glance toward the bar, where the only guy on staff stands with a two-bareled beast pointed straight at me.
“Leave.”
I raise my hands, but satisfaction still bubbles in me when I see the blood pouring from the homophobe’s nose.
Clyde shakes his head. “Really? Just because we’re gay?”
“No! Because you’re wrecking my bar!” The bartender bristles, and I push Clyde to the door, because I’m not risking him getting shot over this. We did break that table.
“Next time, let’s try a gay bar,” I say, breathing in the cool night air. My ribs still hurt from being hit with the chair, but I’ll live.
Clyde pulls on my hand despite someone smoking outside and seeing us. He’s either drunk, or that excited about me. Can’t say I’m complaining. It feels so natural to touch him.
“Let’s take my car,” he says, already jumping in. I take a quick glance at mine and decide that Clyde can give me a lift back here tomorrow.
“So that was… a warm-up I didn’t need,” I tell him, stretching in the seat. In the rearview mirror, I notice a smudge of blood beneath my mouth and wipe it off.
Clyde laughs and drives off with a screech of tires. “Did you see how I fucked up the guy with the chair? He’s gonna be finding splinters for days to come.”
“He deserved it and more,” I say and place my hand on Clyde’s thigh, squeezing as he leaves the parking space in front of the bar. How did I end up here with the man of my dreams? I don’t know, but I’m not complaining.
“For hitting you? Fuck yeah. They were lucky I didn’t want to cause even more mayhem.” And, like the reckless bastard he is, Clyde leans over to kiss me while driving.
His lips are perfect—soft, warm, inviting—I need to force myself to pull away, because we are not dying before I get to come inside him.
“I like how you can hold your own in a fight. How you get what the lifestyle’s about,” I tell him and bite my lip as he drives toward the motel at a most definitely illegal speed.
“Gay or not, I was born into it and I’ll probably die either in a fight or on the road.” And even talking about a violent death, he smiles.
“I don’t want that for you,” I say, sliding my arm to his shoulders.
“Huh?” Clyde spares me a glance, but then he’s busy turning into the motel’s parking lot. Must have only been a mile or two.