Free Perfectly Unmatched by Liz Reinhardt Page B

cry.
    What did the Allies learn from World War II? Never back down when you’re faced with an aggressor.
    Never.
    Grandpa was a bully, but he taught me to use my hands to fight, and, though I’d never dusted his mostly abusive lessons off and given them a go in the real world, now is the time to use my brawn over my brains.
    No matter that my brawn is significantly less spectacular than my brains. I have no choice except to use what will work best in the situation.
    I know, deep in the marrow of who I am, that I have a twisted, shithead pinch of bloodlusting bully that can, hopefully, help me give Akos a lesson he won’t soon forget.
    I just wish my rousing internal battle cry would tame the knocking of my knees.
    Whenever I feel particularly nervous about standing him down, I bring to mind the slow slide of Benelli’s jacket. There was a second where I sucked my breath in as, inch by gorgeous inch, she exposed more of that perfect caramel skin.
    And then there was the ring of bruises made by Akos’s fingers grabbing too violently against her skin.
    I would have stood up for any woman who’d told me she’d been mistreated. Any person, really. I don’t just read about heroes in the pages of books and then cower on the streets of life. I read about them and then get the incredibly stupid idea that I can slide those heroics into modern life and brandish all that bravado in the real world.
    And I’ve done it. Verbally. Many times. But verbally won’t cut it tonight.
    It’s not hard to guess where Akos might be. There’s only one place in town that serves some kind of underground bootleg vodka that’s locally distilled and has a ridiculous proof percentage.
    The bar is already screamingly loud and slightly out of control. There’s an abundance of pushing and yelling disguised as dancing and conversation, all layered over the ear-drum thrashing music. The jostling dance floor is a frenetic anarchy and the bar is a cloying thrust of arms and flirtations. Navigating this bar is like looking into the Strait of Messina and attempting to successfully pass between Scylla and Charybdis.   
    As a student of Odysseus, I know the value of running into the six-headed monster and having some chance of defeat rather than being sucked into a whirlpool that spells out certain death. So I head to the bar and order the searing local vodka that will probably melt my stomach lining and down it, then immediately order a second. I grip shotglass number two tight in my hand and watch, waiting.
    Five minutes go by, then ten, then fifteen. Finally Akos stumbles off the dance floor, his arms around two young women, one blonde, one dark-haired, both scantily clad and full of giggles.
    I wonder if the have any idea what a hot-headed, abusive monster they’re clinging to.
    I down the shot and do not whimper, although I’m half sure I’ve lost three-quarters of my esophagus. Despite the loss of pieces of my vital organ, there are positives to chugging such a strong brew. I’m already unsteady on my feet and full of piss and vinegar.
    I stumble the length of the bar and swipe a hand on Akos’s shoulder.
    I wish this could be big and heroic and impressive, but it’s too loud and I’m only slightly drunk enough to go through with this. Once my buzz abates, I’m going to lose some of my backbone.
    I focus on the memory of Benelli, on her skin, purpled with bruises from his hand, and adrenaline whips my backbone into shape.
    “ Akos!” I yell above the hubbub of the bar. “I have something to say to you. I think we best take it outside.”
    He looks at me with bleary eyes and snorts. “Say it here, schoolboy.” He pulls the two girls closer, nuzzling one alabaster neck, then another, before he adds, “Tonight wasn’t a great night for me. I’m just trying to unwind.”
    “It didn’t look like it was such a great night for Benelli either, mate. I would think a man would know better how to treat a woman he takes on a date.”
    I know