too close for comfort

”Jesus, I didn’t think we coulda under-fuckin’-estimated it. What the fuck is that?”

Greeves swatted at his stomach, drawing a growl out of him. Like some green fucking recruit being yanked around by the balls, he’d grabbed the first Sazarac and had downed it. The next had appeared practically by magic, the second in a line that probably would’ve stretched from one end of the bar to the other if he’d stopped to count it up before they’d spilled out of there. A mouthy knot of assholes already reeking enough of booze that people were getting contact drunk.

Beads sparkled like jewels in the air as they started down Bourbon Street, giving a city that was just gonna be an alcohol sodden cess pit come the end of Mardi Gras a fairy tale feel. Greeves bumped up against him, his hand clutching at one beefy shoulder – getting soft his ass – smiling sloppily up at him. Oh, he’d known he should’ve told them to go fuck themselves when that first call had come in, but some part of him had been softened up and it was all her fault.

Mitch saw flashes of her in the crowd as they bounced from bar to bar. Heard that sharp snap of Lucky’s mocking voice on the fetid air, pushing just as much as the snappy bitching of the team he’d allowed himself to be separated from – now that was the sort of pussy move he regretted, not that he’d ever let her know. She crowed enough as it was, pushing with those deceptively delicate little hands until he was snapping and doing worse than just grabbing the next drink. There was no sort of extraordinary healing to deal with that sort of stupidity, just a short enough recovery period that he could really have her regretting every pushing him.

He was a head and shoulders above every damn one of them, but Mandell threw an arm around his shoulders all the same, dragging him across the road to a hole in the wall sorta place. Neon light glowed in its depths, the sharp wail of a horn blasting out, bodies writhed as shadows against a dusky background. ”Wait, is this the place from last night?” It looked familiar, but after days of this now – fuck, had it really been Friday night that the first drink had gone down? – all these places looked the same. A never ending rotation of bars and drinks and women. Not a single damn hangover for him come morning, but the suite stunk of sweaty motherfuckers who’d stagger for the bathrooms in a cloud of misery and regret and emerge minutes later pink cheeked and ready for another day of partying. Surely it had to catch up to them eventually.

The cry from behind the bar mighta been one of warm welcome, like old friends returning from war, but there was an equal chance it was born of bad memories. Half a dozen drunk assholes trashing the place, looking to do the same again if this was the Hurricane that broke the camel’s back.

Drinks appeared anyway, the Amex Black Card he slapped down on the bar maybe buying a little warmth back. Liquor splashed over the side of the glass, shrill laughter cutting the music again and again until the haze began to settle in again. Mitch scowled down at the glass in his hands like he could will it to stay steady as he lifted it to his mouth by stubbornness alone. Mandell jostled him from behind, hanging from his neck like a child by one arm to reach around him with the other for one of the dozen shots that had appeared. It splashed down his face as the jackoff threw it back. Mitch whipped his head back, catching something if the dull pain that rolled across his scalp was anything to go by. There was a crash, voices finally silencing the trombone in a shrill wail of protest.

Hands clutched at his shirt, pulling it tight in the pits as he was dragged off of his stool, the glass still clutched in his hand. Booze splashed over his hand but there was enough left for him to down a mouthful at the door and fling it back into the bar. The glass smashed and then he was reeling out into the crowd. Lights whirled in the darkness like lures, leaving him lurching after one of them until suddenly he was on his own at the edge of the crowd with none of the assholes who’d dragged him out here in sight.

Leaning back against the wall, he slid down. Head hanging, his vision swimming until some girl half bent in front of him, saying something before she pushed a plastic cup into his hand. Blue slushy liquid filled it, coating his tongue with a sickly sweetness as he took his first gulp. Half of it went down before he did.

Had it been ten minutes or an hour? It was hard to tell when your only sense of time was the lights shifting overhead. The booze steadily soaked into his body, his system fighting it until eventually it would win out and he’d roll onto his hands and knees, maybe crawling, maybe getting up to stagger after them all.

He blinked, his eyelids feeling like they took an age to lift open again as he was nudged, the dead weight of his body barely moving. When they did, she was there again, that smug face staring down at him, the toe of one shoe poised. ”Here she comes, spoutin’ the fuckin’ wisdom of saints,” he grunted. He frowned, wrapping one hand, still sticky with the drink melting in a blue puddle beside him, around her ankle. Was he anchoring her there so she wouldn’t slip away on another blink, or preparing to yank and send her spilling on her pert little ass? ”s all mine. A Black Card, fuckin’ sign of success, that.” Left sitting behind the bar at that last place, nearly every round since they’d arrived charged to it, just like the suite. Fuck.

With a groan that felt like it’d come from the newly animated dead, he tried to lever himself up with his grip on her. ”Only stupid shit is being goaded into things. Like railroad tracks.” The smile caught him on the way up, sloppy around the edges, teeth shining in the damp surround of that fierce rust red beard. ”That what you’re here for? Another go around? Let’s play chicken.” His hand slid up the back of her leg, heading for that handful of taught muscle he’d palmed before on the gritty run of tracks.

Tagged: LUCKY CHRISTMAS * Word Count: 1116

Greeves had a foot, at least a hundred pounds and a couple of cup sizes on her, but as he’d swatted at his still flat gut earlier, there’d been just a hint of the sharp tongued little harpy coming out of his mouth. It’d been disconcerting, even more than her turning up over him like some sort of guardian angel (devil? Did they guard wayward drunks too?). From that first night in the club Lucky had turned up at the unluckiest moments – the one night he’d apparently failed to please (if only she’d seen what had gone down at the club the last time he’d been there, that was proof that it all worked perfectly), the night he was meant to go on a date with a nice woman, now that he was sprawled at the curb like some fucking raw recruit who was swooning off his stool after the first round of shots.

She looked good though. Mitch grinned, at least while her mouth was shut, and that cute little button of a nose was scrunching down at him like he was something she needed to scrape off her shoe. Not that different to normal, although this was a new angle. An interesting one. As he grumped at her with a half coherent explanation for whose money had paid to get this much of a drink on, he slid his fingers a little higher, one fingertip circling on the delicate line of her bone at her ankle. He’d definitely had his hands there before, gripping, pulling her down the bed towards him, locking her ankles around his waist as he’d …

Oh yeah, she was remembering it too, look at that fucking smile. His grew, revealing white teeth, the tip of a tongue poking between dyed blue from whatever was … had he finished it? Mitch glanced around him, grunting as he spotted the empty cup, tipped over on its side with just a tiny rivulet of the melted blue booze inside. ”Some people can read,” he told her. ”And appreciate a masterpiece. New York Times bestseller, baby. Six times in a row.” He’d worked her into the one in progress now, a Bond girl type, villainous, just looking to drag … him around by his …

Mitch’s focus was on that slender line of her leg, remembering the route his hand had taken here before. Where was that spot that … He kept his palm on one thigh, reaching across to trace his fingertips up the other, close enough to … as she bent down to meet him halfway and … hello. ”Bitch,” he growled, his teeth gritting, half that haze suddenly gone at the sting of hair pulled at the roots. Craning up, he gripped her thigh now, trying to anchor her, even as she stepped over his leg, right between his thighs. ”What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked, ignoring his supposed admission. He hadn’t been the one shrieking and running from the train cause he was chickenshit that night. She’d gone first, had …

His teeth were bared again, this time in a grimace for a moment before Lucky’s mouth was on his. Just enough sense not to drag her down in the curb with him here. There’d been police patrolling the crowds on the other nights, scooping up the idiots that’d just passed out where they fell, giving them a snooze in the drunk tank before, presumably, letting them right bac out to do it again the next night. ”I didn’t last time, did I? Got the spoils of victory right there…” The grip on his hair didn’t do anything to stop him from getting a handful of cheek before she was straightening up.

She’d fucking deserve it if he did use his grip on her leg to have her falling right on top of him. Mitch growled, trying to hunch back into the unyielding surface of the street, like he could burrow right through it to escape that boot. ”Gonna have to fucking let me up first,” he puffed. ”Hey!” Now she was pissing him off, the hand smacking against her bare thigh now. ”Settling huh? Get the fuck off and I’ll show you how sad it is.” Growling again, he dragged her feet down off of his chest, using his grip on her thigh to lever himself up. The hem of her dress brushed over his face and that temptation was back before he started to scramble up. He let go finally, bringing his hand up to brush over his mouth. The scent of the blue drinks was still on it, overlaying the earlier spill of tequila, and her.

The grin was almost feral this time, his tongue swiping the mix from his knuckles before he extended his other hand to her, gripping that tiny hand in his to drag her through the crowd. ”Pit stop first. I need that card back unless you’re more loaded than you look.” He jerked his chin up towards the bar he’d been thrown out of, the bouncer that was already glaring in his direction. ”On second fucking thoughts. Lead the way, genius.” There was a good chance there was no bar left in the place he hadn’t been in over the last couple of days but since the miniature pain in his ass had come all this way, he presumed she had a fucking clue where she wanted to go.

Tagged: LUCKY CHRISTMAS * Word Count: 907

The seven-foot-tall pissed off fucking pissed off asshole was gonna show her something other than how sad he wasn’t. If the cops weren’t working the crowd – making sure that the morons who flocked here for Mardi Gras (his team for fucking starters) weren’t getting their pockets picked clean or causing trouble – he might’ve shown her right there on the street corner. Dress flipped up, her mouth too occupied to keep taking those irritating little nips at him, like she was one of those yappy little street dogs that’d follow them around when they were in the sand pit, snapping at their ankles until one of them got tired of it and threw them something else to sink those teeth into.

He considered doing it there anyway, under the cover of that dress long enough to have her doing nothing but moaning his name for a minute. Those fingers would be back in his hair, tugging tight as his teeth sank into the meat of one of her thighs. She’d bitch at him first, would likely call him a coward when that was all she got from it. Fuck it. If he was going to have to hear it all anyway, he’d do it with a lot more alcohol in his system – and hers. Mitch narrowed his eyes, huffing out a breath that spread warm over that skin he would’ve bitten and his own cheek.

Shrugging the feeling off, he lumbered his way to his feet, licking the sweetness from his knuckles as he grabbed for Lucky’s hand. At least if he lost her in the crowd she’d still be able to follow – he couldn’t have said the same without tying a balloon to her wrist. Most of those caught in the tide were already reeling, their bodies as steeped in booze as the damp, sticky blacktop under his feet. Plastic cups littered the ground to be cleaned up in the morning, while they were all sleeping off their benders, kicked aside, crunching under his boots as he finally came to a stop in front of that shithole.

Mitch bared his teeth at the asshole in a sneer. The guy might’ve thought he’d kick his ass, but he hadn’t met the feral little bitch who’d flown out here to heckle him til he’d crawled out of the gutter. ”Tricking? Maybe if you could read you’d see how good they are for yourself.” Fuck Jnr’s money. He’d been making his own for long enough, refusing to take single dollar that slipped through those grubby hands. ”Of course not.” At that he huffed out a sigh. He’d meant he’d head back there in the morning, piteously fucking creeping in without her there to crawl up his ass about it. By then maybe someone would’ve run it up, but hitting the limit on the damn thing in a single night on booze alone was more than most would’ve been able to manage.

Turning towards her, he bent his head down, his teeth bared at her now. ”It’s. My. Own. Fucking. Money.” And it was his ego stinging like Lucky had raked her nails down it – just as she’d known it would. He yanked at her hand again, his temper swelling up in his chest, and then they were both there on the sidewalk outside the bar without him knowing which one of them had led the way. His upper lip curled in distaste, the sneer aimed over Lucky’s shoulder at brainless here.

”Get the fuck off,” he growled into the V of Lucky’s thumb and fingers. He pressed his chin down into her touch, trying to nip at the thin webbing of skin. She was already on the move though. Mitch pressed in close behind her, the sneer twisting into a shit eating grin that he knew would grate. ”I’ll be a choir boy, dontchu worry.” Maybe picking up a bottle for a little swing on the way out. They’d get lost in the crowds quick enough after, his oversized frame melting down to her size to disappear into the crowd if it was needed. He wasn’t planning on spending the rest of this trip in a cell, even if that hit would be satisfying.

That tiny figure made slower headway through the crowd than he would’ve done, but with Lucky in charge they made it to the bar anyway. The place was still filled with the same assholes who’d been here when he’d first been kicked out. Probably too drunk and brainless now – the last braincells they possessed washing away – to stagger out of here. Yet they weren’t cut off. Fucking double fucking standards.

Huffing over it, he pressed close as Lucky leaned over the bar, peering over her head like he’d spot his card just sitting there on the counter. He guessed he wasn’t wrong as the bartender returned with it. Thank fucking Jesus. He could’ve handled the rest of the trip with the cards he’d left back at the hotel, but he preferred not having the hassle of trying to replace the damn thing. It wasn’t handed straight over, the bouncer was gonna be puckering up right about now.

”You lying bitch.” The cackle rolled out of him as Lucky ordered instead. Fuck the idiot who hadn’t followed them in there to check if it was a quick in and out. ”You’re still not done trying to knee me in the balls huh?” He stared down at Lucky as she bitched about his choice of drink. Mitch hitched his brows, still tasting the Hurricanes he had drunk in the back of his throat – caving on the street would’ve replaced that with a different sweetness. ”And you’d know that? How many times have you been here for Mardi Gras huh?” The comment still stung though. It was always a shove with her, tiny hands jabbing at his sternum until he was forced to take a step backwards or forwards and didn’t he always make sure he was pushing into her and those stupid taunts like a moron.

If it had been Sazeracs all night he probably still would’ve been out cold in the street, instead of in here, throwing half the drink back now. He swished it around his mouth, swallowing and staring down at her warily as she smirked up at him. That was usually when the trouble started again. ”Why don’t you go ask them? I’m sure if you insult ‘em enough they’ll teach ya one way or another.” Oh, it was definitely the latter. Be it Mardi Gras or Fleet Week, assholes – like he’d been – knew that flashing a little camo or the full Officer and a Gentleman whites had most women falling straight on their backs.

Now it might end up one of them on their backs. The music earlier had been loud enough to drown most things out, but not from his fucking ears. What had once been a blessing was now the sort of curse that had him gritting his teeth. Fucking assholes whose egos were puffed up with the steam from etching the creases into their uniforms deciding to swing their non-existent dicks around just to prove they were hard men. Tossing the second half of his drink down, Mitch gestured at the bartender with the other for his card. It wasn’t fucking worth getting the boot from the same bar twice in one night.

His expression was sour as he looked back at Lucky. ”You’ve never used a fucking brain cell and walked away from anything in your life?” No. She wouldn’t have done. She’d have stamped over there, glaring up at those morons from the level of their belly buttons before she got herself a good grip on something under their uniform pants to get control of the situation. ”You wanna get to use one of those on an empty head just because they can’t get control of their shared brain cell for two seconds?” But she had to turn it around to his dad again. Instead of jabbing for them, she’d stuck a thumb right in what she’d known was his softest spot. ”Gimme the card,” he ordered the bartender again, hissing out a sigh as she hesitated. He dug in his pocket, practically pasting his driving license against her forehead before she handed it over – like there were two men who looked like him stirring up shit in this town.

Twisting back with the two cards in hand, Mitch tucked them down the neck of Lucky’s top, trusting she at least had a bra on underneath to catch them. He picked up the glass he’d set down, weighing it for a moment before he spun and took a handful of long steps across the bar, the crowd and the stools he bumped scattering out of his way before the glass was thrown with the accuracy of someone who’d played ball – like a good son – from little league right up to high school. Pitching it right into the face of the loudest asshole. ”You wanna try saying that again now boyo?” Mitch hollered with a laugh.

He expected to feel hands gripping at him at any moment, but he was already snatching the pool cue out of one of the asshole’s hands, tossing it back in Lucky’s direct – oh, he wasn’t the only one getting involved in this. She’d pushed for it to happen, she’d help. Hands did grip him as he twisted back, but they belonged to the runt of their fucking litter and he was already whipping his head forwards. It was like a rock, catching the moron right across the bridge of his nose and there was his first blooding in this. His laughter filled the air, strained, but loud, as the guy’s nose gushed a steady stream down onto his shirt.

Tagged: LUCKY CHRISTMAS * Word Count: 1633 (whoops)