Free Half Blood by Lauren Dawes

wife-beaters and ripped jeans like it was something they could be fucking proud about. Their arms had some kind of ink on them, and mostly it was the name of the trash they’d managed to knock up. The rest of the clientele were working girls getting nice and blunt for the whoring that would come later. They were all the fucking same. His top lip lifted from his teeth in a sneer before he focused on the fresh drink in front of him.
    ‘Hey Mac?’
    Buddy lifted his head to look at the guy slowly. ‘What?’ he snarled.
    ‘My girlfriend here says that you were checking her out. Is that right?’
    His eyes drifted over the guy’s right shoulder. The bottle-blonde who was standing against the pool table was wearing a shirt that was about three sizes too small and a pair of panties that had been mistaken as a skirt. She smiled at him as he looked her over; her legs widening a little telling him all he needed to know—she was jonesing for a fight so she could get laid later on tonight, and by the look in her eyes she wanted it to be him and not the fucking mouth breather standing in front of him.
    ‘So? What have you got to say for yourself?’
    Buddy’s gaze finally fixed back on the Whiskey Tango in front of him.
    ‘Yeah. I was checking her out. What are you going to do about it?’
    The guy’s colour changed, reddening as Buddy metaphorically cranked the guy’s balls in his palm. He could smell his anger––the acrid stench of his rage was like a red rag to the bull in him. Buddy saw the trash’s fist flying before the punch could land. Dodging the fist, he elbowed him hard into the solar plexus. The air left the guy’s body in a warm rush of beer-drenched breath as he doubled over. Buddy rammed his knee into his face while he was bent over, knocking him down to the filthy ground.
    Like all bar fights, it took less than two seconds for a crowd to form; the bottle-blonde front and centre behind her man. They all yelled and jeered as Buddy’s eyes roamed over the nameless faces. His lack of attention left him open for the punch in the face that he hadn’t even seen coming. Buddy felt his lip splitting open, blood crashing out of the wound in an angry wave. His anger pulsed out of him, his adrenalin kicking in and jacking him up. The guy swung at him again; the blow glancing off his cheek and catching him on the jaw. He stumbled backwards, catching himself on the bar.
    The Trash danced back a few steps, holding his hands up in front of him like he was some goddamn professional boxer. The guy squeezed his right eye shut to keep the river of blood from the cut Buddy had opened on his eyebrow from blinding him. His bitch screamed at him to hit Buddy again, but Buddy saw his hesitation.
    With a grin twisting up his lips, he pushed away from the bar and kicked the Trash in the kneecap from the side and watched him go down. When he was finally on the ground, a kick to the face made sure that he stayed that way.
    ‘Fucking cocksucker,’ he growled, spitting out blood onto the guy’s face.
    The cheer that erupted from the peanut gallery hurt his ears. He stumbled back until the bar stool hit him in the ass and a fresh shot and another beer were lined up under his nose along with a cloth. Buddy looked up into the bartender’s life-worn face.
    ‘For your lip,’ he said, pointing down at the cloth.
    Buddy picked up the fabric and held it gingerly to his mouth. The pain felt fan-fucking-tastic. It brought back memories from being at school again, fighting for survival, and later on just for the hell of it.
    By the time he had downed the drinks, the blonde had twitched her way over to him.
    ‘Hi handsome,’ she purred into his ear. ‘You wanna get out of here?’ She pressed her silicone wonders against his arm, making sure to jiggle the goods as incentive.
    Buddy turned his whole body to look at her. Her eyes were the colour of watered-down peas, her lips pumped so full of collagen that she probably sweat the stuff.