Savage Love

100-150 words

My head cranked around on my neck, the pain of
gauntlet to jaw bringing the bite of tears to my eyes. Blood burst from my lip
in a macabre spray, my adrenaline ratcheting up from mildly interested to
growing amusement. Ten against two was hardly fair, but our opponents’ drunken
fog seemed to negate Kobi’s warning that this wouldn’t end well for them.

Ducking the strike of the wooden leg of a barstool, I
spun and punched. My knuckles buried hard into flab, my opponent’s makeshift
club clattering to the sticky dance floor along with the flannel-clad tough-guy
who thought he had things all figured out.

Kobi snorted behind me, the demon’s odd sense of humor
triggered by a clumsy display of his attackers colliding off one another like
something from a Three Stooges skit.

“Stop the clowning around, you two,” Suzi snapped from
behind the bar. “Take out the trash or I will.”

The namesake and owner of Psycho Suzi’s cocked the
sawed-off in her hand and raised a silver brow. Suzi topped the list as the
toughest female I’d had the pleasure of working with and considering the depth
of field that category held—Blaze, Lexi, and his sister, Zophia—that said a lot
about the woman.

If she were forty years younger, I’d be in love.

Shit. I grabbed Kobi and pulled my brother-in-arms out
of the path of a sucker punch rushing in from three o’clock.

He scowled. “I saw that coming, Sav.”

Yeah, right. I rolled my eyes and raised my hands. Next
time, I’ll let them steamroll you onto the floor.

Kobi eyed the worn, drink-drenched parquet and
snorted. “Yeah, that’s just gross.”

Back at it, grunts and groans escaped the mob of men
falling at the soles of their shitkickers like late-night worshippers. By the
worried grimaces from the no-longer-cheering section, these studs promised to
impress the ladies by taking out the leather-clad hardasses.

Ha. Sucked to be them.

Kobi’s phone went off, and the generic ringtone was
weird. Having a song dedicated to every person in his contact list got him
razzed on the regular, or beaten if the caller didn’t appreciate the associated
dedication.

My ring was “Bad to the Bone.” I approved.

Heat sliced my side. Shit. I spun, and the
barroom brawl returned to the forefront of my attention. Dumb-fuck bastard. I
grabbed the hilt of the switchblade lodged above my left hip and pulled it
free.

Kobi’s eyes flipped to scarlet, his mask to hide his
demon side discarded. He finished off his final opponent with a palm thrust and
a broken nose. The crunch of cartilage had the crowd groaning and the girls
letting off little whimpers of distress. “Not cool, asswipe,” Kobi snapped.
“Why go to weapons. We were having a nice little Donnybrook, and you went and
ruined it.”

I barely heard my buddy’s words. Fury fired in my gut,
the acid burn of bile in my throat overshadowing all reason. After more than a
decade of fighting the most powerful and vile enemy imaginable, did this asshat
think he’d be the one to take me down?

Not bloody likely.

Fed up with the whole encounter, I grabbed two guys by
the ankles, Flashed outside, and dumped them on the porch. When I stormed back
inside, I grabbed two more.

Rinse and repeat.

Me dematerializing clued a few idiots into the fact
that I wasn’t an average Joe biker hanging at the bar. Few citizens of the
Realm of the Fair possessed that ability: gods, Weres, and Talon warriors.

Two out of fucking three assholes.

The heel of my size sixteens stomped the sac of
Stabby-Mc-stabber man, and the tough guy with the mullet curled up like a
boiled shrimp. Another trip outside and I slammed the door to shut them out in
the cold.

Harsh night, all the way around.

The violence didn’t faze the patrons who cleared the
dance floor to watch the fight. In this realm, and especially in the
communities of Haven Mountain, everyone had pretty much seen or suffered every
nightmare imaginable. The late-night socialites flooded back onto the dance
floor and picked up their two-step shuffle, the altercation forgotten.

Back at our booth, I hiked up my wet tee to assess the
damage. Fucking hell. Couldn’t a guy go out for a few dozen drinks with a pain
in the ass buddy without ending up on the pointy end of some wannabe tough
guy’s poker?

Kobi ass-planted across the table and eyed the damage.
“Stop whining. It’s a flesh wound, you pussy.”

I flipped him a skull-ringed bird. Mutes didn’t
complain much, and I wouldn’t if I could. Where was the style in it?

“Let’s not tell Zo about this, ’kay? She’s pissed that
I danced around what I was doing when I left tonight. You getting shanked at
Suzi’s wouldn’t win me any points.”

I lifted my eyebrow. I’m surprised you’ve got points
left to lose.