Babysitting a whiny-ass software designer wasn’t at all what he imagined himself doing after his time in the Army. But when the bodyguard assignment came to him, Trace happened to be between gigs. With nothing better to do with his time, he’d accepted the job.
It was the longest four weeks of his life.
The crowds here offered him the perfect opportunity to people-watch. Something Uncle Sam used to pay him to do, which probably explained his propensity to still do so when the opportunity arose.
And it rose in abundance here.
“Too much of a pussy to fight me?” The mouthy fucker spouted off again. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re too scared to even look at me.”
Seriously?
Barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Tracedidlook at the asshole, then. Just a quick, sideways glance to assess his opponent.
Even though he was sitting down, it was apparent the guy was of shorter-than-average height and weight. In his late thirties to early forties, the idiot appeared to be close to Trace’s thirty-eight years.
From the stiffness in his dark Wranglers to the pristine condition of his obviously new cowboy boots, the guy was definitely not a local. This was good news for Trace, because it meant there would be no good ole boys waiting in the wings to step in and back the fucker up if things came to blows.
Easy, Winters. Those women are not your problem. Plus, this guy is clueless, smaller than you, and from the look of things, drunk off his idiot ass.
Listening to his inner voice of reason—part of it, anyway—Trace kept his control and tipped his head toward the half-consumed drinks and purses sitting on the shiny wooden countertop in front of him.
Forgetting the part about this not being his problem, he then gestured to the barstools beside him.
“Two women are sitting there.” Trace looked over his shoulder to see the females in question twirling around and laughing on the dance floor. “They’re out there dancing, but when they come back, they’re gonna want to sit down. You need to be gone before that happens.”
The other man shot to his feet and glared. With his arms outstretched, the dipshit stumbled a bit as he asked, “You wanna go?”
Actually, yeah. He kind of did.
Truth was, after years of bottling up all the shit he’d seen and done while working for Uncle Sam—knowing all the things he and his former Delta brotherswantedto do but couldn’t—Trace was more than ready to kick some ass.
Just not like this...and definitely notthisguy.
He wouldn’t even be a challenge.
Releasing a slow breath, Trace rose to his feet and crossed his arms at his chest. The move stretched the sleeves of his black t-shirt to their limit as he turned to face the drunk bastard.
Adjusting his feet to a shoulder-width stance, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he simply towered over the daring man and stared.
The wanna-be brawler’s eyes widened as they got their first look at Trace’s six-five, two-sixty frame. Blinking, the man’s surprised gaze dropped to a set of well-defined, tattoo-covered biceps before rising back up.
“Yeah, asshole.” Trace clenched his jaw. “That’s whatIthought. Now, why don’t you do us both a favor and find another place to be.”
Making his biggest mistake of the night, the man who’d ruined Trace’s relaxing evening took a swing.
Having seen the move coming from a mile away, Trace leaned to his right as a fist flew past his jaw, hitting nothing but air.
The dipshit’s momentum threw him off balance, causing him to fall against Trace.
Using this to his advantage, Trace reached around and grabbed the back of the man’s neck. In one fluid motion, he took the guy down, and with his fingers digging into the man’s skin, he shoved the idiot’s face into the sticky-as-fuck floor.
The music stopped. So did the dancing and once-buzzing conversation.
With one knee resting on the floor beside the guy’s head, Trace leaned down and growled in his ear, “You done?”
“Get the fuck off me!” the guy yelled as he fought against Trace’s unwavering hold.
“So...I take it that’s a no?”