One to Love (One to Hold 4)

Stitch had my arm, pulling me back and speaking to the fucker with a death wish. “Take your drink and go.”

The punk’s eyes narrowed. He was a snake, I could tell it. A sneaky fucker. The type to pull a shiv out of his boot when your back was turned.

It didn’t matter. The burn in my chest demanded blood. My fists clenched, and I had to get that release. I needed to pound his lights out. One more word, motherfucker.

Just as fast another chump joined him. This one was equally stupid. “What’s your name, shorty?”

Stitch bristled. “Stitch.”

Explosions of laughter flew in our faces. The skinny punks fell against the bar, and I heard the seconds ticking in my brain, the countdown.

“You some fuckin’ Hawaiian alien, short stack?” The new guy’s arm was around Punk #1’s shoulders, hanging on him like a loose coat.

“I’m Hawaiian,” my friend growled. “And when I finish with you, you’ll have more stitches than skin.”

“OUTSIDE!” The bartender’s roar was right at my face.

“With pleasure,” Punk #2 said, leaning too close to my friend. “I’ll use shorty to clean the grease off my boots.”

“Then you’re gonna suck my dick.” The other one leaned into my nose.

Stitch caught his friend by the neck, hauling him to the side exit. I grabbed #1 by the arms and threw him against the wall after them. He rolled through the exit, but I caught the sneaky gleam in his eye.

The alley was hot and dark, and it smelled like dog shit. It had been raining all day, and now the black asphalt was slick. Cigarette butts dotted the clumps of weeds against the brick wall.

Stitch had already landed several blows on Punk #2. To his credit, he was letting him stand, pretending he had a chance. I had no such inclinations, but the shithead who’d gone before me was ready. I’d just passed through the exit when a bottle exploded beside my temple.

“FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!” He screamed, using all the force of his skinny weight to fall on me as I stepped back against the wall. My fists were up just as fast, blocking his sloppy punches.

He landed one amateur, from the country strike to my cheekbone, and in the second it took me to regain my bearings, I saw him shaking his hand and cringing. He’d probably broken his hand.

“That all you got, tough guy?” My voice was crazy with laughter. The demon inside me was awake. He was roaring in my ears, and the flames were blazing from my chest into my brain.

Oof! The sound of my fist making contact with his torso was like hitting a thick piece of meat—solid and perfect. Gratification tickled in my brain. I needed more.

The punk was screaming insults now, elbows flailing, ribs unprotected. I wanted him to shut the fuck up. That stupid noise scraped against my satisfaction like rubbing a cat’s fur backwards.

Spinning him around so his back was to the wall, my next strike went to his face. An arc of blood sprayed up my forearm as the satisfying crunch of bone echoed in my ears.

He screamed again, and my world went red. Vision tunneled, I was in that place. All that mattered was the swift movement of my fists, the pleasure of making contact over and over, pounding this mass of flesh into submission.

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right

Left, right, left, right, left, right, left

My fists flew like a machine gun. Every contact was a hit of the greatest drug. I was flying high. Bouncing back on my feet, my eyes closed. I let the pleasure roll down my shoulders like warm water. More.

“Aw, shit,” I heard behind me.

I didn’t notice the flashing lights. I only heard another noise come from the meat in front of me. That did it.

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right

Left, right, left, right, left, right, left

Beating him over and over, I kept going until he stopped making that fucking noise. Then I hit him again to be sure he was done.

“Speak again, fucker. One more word.” My voice was sandpaper growling as I waited.