Page 38 of The Cruiser
He snorts a laugh. “Donatella’s my client, much to your boyfriend’s chagrin.”
“The good news is, you must have me confused with someone else,” I say, somewhat relieved at the mistaken case of identity. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Aren’t you fucking Morgan?”
He turns to face me in what feels like a menacing gesture. It triggers every warning bell.
“I’m handling his public relations, if that’s what you mean.”
“Public relations.” He scoffs and slams back the copper remains of his drink. “Is that how you describe it?”
I match the weight of his stare, adding some ice for good measure. “Given your manners, you might want to consider some PR. If you’ll excuse me.”
With my champagne topped up, the intention is to march past this lout, but his hand clamps around my wrist. I stagger and feel it like a slick of ice down my spine. Underneath the swagger is a dangerous, boozy vibe of a man unafraid to be violent. I’ve come across one or two in my lifetime and took a self-defense course because of it.
“Let go of me, please,” I say, my voice low and steely. We haven’t caused a stir, yet. Only one sideways glance from the bartender.
“I’ll pay you triple what he’s paying you,” he slurs, drunk, but faculties intact.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not taking on new clients.”
“I’m not talking PR.” With one powerful yank on my wrist, we’re belly to belly. He leers at my boobs with an oily smile. “I bet you’re an amazing fuck.”
I can smell his acrid breath. A cologne that doesn’t mix with his pH. In general, I never trust a man who wears more diamonds than I do. Especially one in his nose.
“That’s very classy,” I say. “I’ll keep your offer in mind. Now, please take your hand off me.” I make the mistake of scanning over his shoulder for Morgan. A damsel in distress signal he pounces all over.
“He’s probably banging some chick in the bathroom. Women are a dime a dozen to him, so don’t get so high on yourself, Miss Public Relations.”
Normally, I’d let a heckler run off his mouth. Once they’re out of steam they’ve got nothing. But he’s particularly insidious, and I’ve had enough. “Grow up, creep.”
I toss my champagne into his face and he sputters in shock. A murmur of surprise rises from the lineup at the bar, the air shifting as everyone takes a step back. I attempt to yank out of his grip, but his meaty hand becomes a band of steel, squeezing tighter as his face contorts with red rage.
“You dumb cunt,” he hisses.
I’ve never been backhanded before, and I’m surprised my neck doesn’t do a three-sixty with the force of his hand. Music, chatter, everything skids to a halt. I bring a hand to my face, heat rising from my cheek. I’m not aware Morgan is alert to any of this, until his fist connects with the man’s unibrow. The jerk staggers backward, upending a tray of dirty glasses. They explode in a shattering mess and someone gasps, “Oh my god.”
Dusting himself off, the man collects his bearings and growls, “Pretentious asshole.”
Head down like a bull, he charges at Morgan, who absorbs the hit. They swirl around in a mad hurricane of grunts, flying fists, and fuck yous. They’re evenly matched, and it seems impossible for anyone to break up the sheer force of their violence. Mortified guests clear the parquet dance floor, skittering to the safety of the sidelines. Cameras come out, flashes lighting up in the dim room like pops of visual noise.
It sets my heart rate flying.
This can’t be good.
Morgan finds an advantage and ratchets the man’s head into the crook of his elbow. “You’re nothing better than a thug,” he mutters.
The other guy does his best to stop the chokehold, calling Morgan names a lady shouldn’t repeat. They wrestle for control until Morgan finally flings his opponent hard onto the floor. But he’s not down for long. He staggers to his feet, crimson droplets falling like rain from his nose.
With the grace of a bad-tempered camel, he spits out a bloody stream of saliva and sneers at Morgan. “We’ll see who’s the last man standing.”
The troll departs, shoving past stunned bystanders, leaving nothing but a damning silence in his wake. More than one woman whispers into the ear of her date, heads tipping discreetly in my direction.
And that’s my debut in Genoa.
Day one, and I’m already in damage control mode.
