Page 112 of The No Try Zone
We’re into our second round when one of the guys from the Lights appears at the table. “I was hoping I’d run into you ladies,” he drawls, pulling out the empty seat without waiting for an invitation.
He’s every bad rugger cliché: hair cut short on the sides but longer in the back, a hideous mustache that he definitely thinks looks good but absolutely does not, a thick neck leading into a barrel chest that’s barely contained by the polo shirt he wears, and tattoos covering his arms. He’s not a bad-looking guy, but the attitude he’s bringing to the party is a huge turnoff.
“We didn’t ask you to sit.” Neesha’s voice is firm.
“Didn’t have to,” he says, turning to wave down our server.
I catch her eye first and shake my head. A dip of her chin in acknowledgment, because of course she understands, and she gives the server aone-momentgesture before swiveling back to our table.
“You should leave,” I say, my voice cold.
“And miss out on talking to the prettiest girl in the room? Definitely not.”
I take it back. He’s not good-looking at all.
“What’s your name?” Neesha asks.
“Dylan,” he answers, angling toward her and turning on the charm. “You’re Neesha. And you, beautiful, are Sam. What’s that short for? Samantha?”
“It’s short for leave, we didn’t invite you to stay,” I answer. It’s remarkable that my voice is steady, because my pulse is racing. This man is everything wrong with his species, and I’m a mix of irritated, scared, and flat-out angry.
His expression falls.
I bolt upright, needing to dispel the crackling energy running rampant through me. “I need to use the restroom. I trust you’ll be gone when I return.” With an apologetic look at Neesha, I practically sprint to the restrooms, my only thought to get away from Dylan. It’s why I don’t realize that the asshole has followed me.
A hand closes around my arm, stopping my forward momentum and causing me to stumble to a stop. Fear spikes in my chest and it’s hard to breathe, but it doesn’t override the absolute fury at being touched without permission.
“Get your hands off me,” I growl up at Dylan.
His smile is a little dangerous now. “You don’t mean that.”
It seems that Vegas must be the town where men really lean into the worst versions of themselves, because this is the second one to tell me what they think I mean. “I said I wasn’t interested.” I yank my arm, but his hand tightens.
The sheer size of him registers as he looms closer, his bulk blocking the light above as his inebriated eyes darken with danger. My heart leaps into my throat as he leers down at me. “You’re just playing hard to get.”
A flash of movement behind him draws my attention. It’s Colin, his face a mask of absolute rage.
“Get your fucking hands off my wife,” he snarls.
Dylan doesn’t get a chance to react before Colin’s fist is flying through the air, connecting with a sickening crunch. Blood flies from Dylan’s nose as he releases me with a surprised yell and turns to fully face Colin.
“Holy shit,” I stammer, nearly tripping over my own feet as I press myself against the wall.
“The fuck?” Dylan sputters, his hand coming up to test his nose. When it comes away bloody, he glares at Colin. “You’ll pay for that.”
Adrenaline coats my blood as Colin’s hands hang loose at his sides, his entire body tense and ready to respond to Dylan’s slightest movement. Which is good, because Dylan surges toward him.
Colin steps to the side, deftly avoiding Dylan’s less than steady punch while landing one of his own against Dylan’s ribs.
Dylan turns, howling with rage and readying to lunge again, but two massive security guards appear. He halts at their appearance, and judging by the looks the two men give all of us, they know exactly what’s going on.
“Time to go,” they say.
“It’s not my fault!” Dylan protests, pointing a finger at me. “She –”
“Didn’t do a fucking thing and you should be arrested for assaulting me, you fucking prick!” The words fly out of my mouth, driven half by rage and half by relief.
One of the guards nods, and they turn to Dylan with alet’s gomovement. He doesn’t bother fighting them about it, choosing instead to spew a final “Fuck you, bitch” at me as he walks away.
