Free Wanted by J. Kenner Page B

head, hips swaying. Getting close, but not touching. Teasing and playing.
    Apparently, Bruiser wanted more than a tease, because he moved in. He smelled of alcohol and tobacco and lust, and though I wasn’t the least bit interested in getting naked with him, I was more than happy to dance-flirt, feeling my blood pumping in my veins. Feeling alive. Because I was tired, so damn tired, of feeling numb, and when he put his hands on my waist and tugged me close, I closed my eyes and gyrated to the music. I wasn’t there with this guy. I was somewhere else. With someone else.
    Hell, maybe I even was someone else.
    Because that was the trick, wasn’t it? When I let myself go, I was getting out of my skin. Shedding the guilt and the pain and all the damn secrets and— fuck it.
    With desperate abandon, I pressed my body hard against his. He let out a low moan of pleasure and cupped my ass, pulling me tight against him so that there was no mistaking his arousal.
    I drew in a breath and tilted my head back. I saw the lust in his eyes. Saw the way his lips curved. He was bending close, either to claim my mouth or to whisper that we needed to get the hell out of there. I didn’t want him, this stranger. I wanted everything I’d lost and everything I couldn’t have, and I just wanted to run away.
    But how can you run from yourself?
    I stiffened, anticipating his words, and knowing damn well that I’d say yes to whatever he suggested—and then hate myself tomorrow.
    And then it all shattered.
    I heard myself cry out as the bruiser was shoved roughly aside—and then heard my gasp of surprise when I saw the man who’d so cavalierly tossed him away. Evan.
    I stood there, completely frozen, as Evan stepped closer to me, his expression thunderous. But beneath the anger in his eyes I saw a heat that shot through my belly to settle between my thighs. Holy shit. This was it, my fantasy, and while part of me leaped with celebration, another part wondered when the hell I’d started hallucinating. Because this couldn’t be real. How the hell could this possibly be real?
    “What the fuck, friend?” Bruiser snarled, giving Evan’s shoulder a shove and soundly destroying my theory that I was living in some sort of dream state. “You wanna get away from my girl?”
    I started to say that I was most definitely not his girl, but the brimstone rose in Evan’s eyes and I opted for the wiser course and stayed quiet.
    “She’s not your girl,” Evan said mildly. “And I’m not your friend.”
    Bruiser’s eyes narrowed and I saw the fingers of his right hand curl into a fist. “I think you need a lesson in manners, pretty boy.”
    Evan glanced down at the now-fisted hand, then back up to the man. “I’d think twice if I were you.”
    “Fuck you,” Bruiser retorted, sending the fist flying as fast as the words.
    In a move worthy of James Bond, Evan shifted, blocking the punch entirely. “I wouldn’t try that again.” He appeared casual and cool—and yet there was something in his manner that announced that he was the biggest badass in the room. And that he’d prove it to anyone who crossed him.
    Bruiser’s balance had been thrown off and he stumbled a bit, eyeing the nearby dancers who’d finally clued in that there was trouble. He licked his lips, and I could see common sense warring with bravado. Finally, his face went slack and he carelessly rolled a shoulder. “Whatever, man. Bitch isn’t worth the trouble, anyway.”
    Faster than I would have imagined possible, Evan reached out, snagged the guy’s collar, and hauled him close. “Apologize to the lady,” he said, his words like ice. “And maybe you’ll get to walk out of here on your own power.”
    As I watched, the blood drained from Bruiser’s face, giving him a gaunt, half-dead appearance. “Sure. Sure, shit. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just being an asshole. Sorry, babe.”
    His pleading eyes shifted back to Evan who, with a look of total contempt, gave him