“What were you, his girlfriend?” Landon mocked. “I never heard a man talk so much shit in my life.”
And then the guy swung. Landon stepped back and dodged, throwing his own punch and landing it squarely on the man’s jaw. I jumped back as the scuffle moved toward me, and one of the guy’s buddies—a huge guy with red hair—leapt forward, punching Landon in the gut too fast for him to avoid.
Landon groaned and dodged the second fist, landing a hit of his own. The third guy came in fast, swinging at Landon’s face. His knuckles just barely missed, skimming along the bridge of Landon’s nose. Now Landon was surrounded on three sides, ducking and dodging and throwing punches, but it couldn’t last forever. He was fighting them four on one.
I screamed, shocked by the violence and speed of the brutality I was witnessing. They were all big and strong and there was no way for me to try and break them apart, the way they were fighting.
Landon nailed the third guy on the cheek, sending him sprawling to the floor.
The follow-through has turned Landon’s body, twisting him to the left and leaving him open to a flying punch from the first man. It hit him squarely in the jaw, the smack loud enough to make me gasp.
Landon whirled, throwing punch after punch on the guy, oblivious to the two friends who had regrouped. One of them punched him in the side, and Landon’s breath whooshed out.
He was holding his own, but outnumbered. With every punch he landed, three pairs of fists flew toward him.
“STOP,” I said, still afraid to jump in. Afraid to put myself in the middle. I glanced over my shoulder, relieved when I saw the bartender and brawny, dark-haired guy rushing out from behind the bar.
Landon threw another punch, hitting the first guy square in the nose, just as the two men arrived. The bartender jumped in front of him, shoving Landon off balance.
He had the element of surprise, and as Landon reeled back, I grabbed his arm.
“Stop, stop,” I said again and again, as Landon regained his footing.
He started to yank his arm away, but then it was like my voice registered. He turned to see me beside him, and it was hard not to flinch away from the venom in his expression. The thin control he’d held onto all day had snapped, and I had the feeling he’d fight these men for another hour, until he was spent, and his anger was gone.
His eye raked over me, and I knew he couldn’t miss how my hands shook, or the ghost-white complexion I must’ve had.
The bartender’s friend was standing in front of the group of four, his hands up. “Chill out our get the fuck out,” he said, his voice more of a growl.
“Let’s just go,” I say, leaning into his ear. “Please. I want to go back to your place.”
His chest heaved, his shoulders rising and falling with every angry breath.
He didn’t say another word, just turned away and left the bar, shoving the door hard on his way out. It bounced back so fast it nearly hit me, but then his hand was there, stopping it just in time.
I thought maybe the millworker or one of his buddies would have shouted out an insult, said something nasty as we departed.
But no—there was just muttering and groaning as the men seemed to be feeling their bumps and bruises. And maybe, I realized—Landon had in fact earned a measure of respect.
Sad that brawling was perhaps the only kind of way to earn respect from those men…and that was the world Landon came from. That was who his father had been. Fitting in some way, I realized, that the whole debacle had ended in violence.
It was his father’s truest legacy.
We were in Landon’s car and speeding away in moments, his hands gripping the wheel too hard. His knuckles were red and bleeding, and his cheek was an angry, blotchy red where someone had landed a fist. He took the corners so quickly I had to brace myself, hanging onto the door handle. Landon handled the car like he was born to do it, the tires chirping as he shifted. We were back at his house in only a few minutes, pulling into the garage.
It wasn’t until the door rolled shut behind us, dimming the daylight, that he spoke.
“I didn’t meant to scare you back there,” he said, without looking at me. He twisted the keys and stared straight ahead.
I wanted him to look at me. I reached out, touching his arm. “You didn’t--”
“I’ll be in the den,” he said, interrupting me. “Best that you give me some time.”
And then he climbed out, and I was sitting in the passenger seat, watching him enter the house.
I shifted in my seat, wondering if I should follow him. He wanted time to cool off. I’d seen the expression in his eyes when he took in my shaking hands. He hadn’t meant to scare me, but I’d never seen a fight like that.
Sure, he’d frightened me. But mostly, I was scared for him. I couldn’t stop thinking about how he looked, surrounded by four men but holding his own, somehow. Throwing punches with near lethal-strength, the muscles in his shoulders and back rippling as he danced back and threw his fists.