90. Rico, the Albino Pool Boy
RICO, THE ALBINO POOL BOY
LAYTON
I’ve had a semi for half the time I’ve been in this bar because of Pixie. Pixie wearing next to nothing and looking like Sulley from Monsters, Inc. mated with Tinker Bell from Peter Pan.
Great. Just fucking great.
Stop staring, Lay.
“Oh yeah? About what?” Her upturned face is set in challenge. She crosses her arms only to think better of it when her feathers push her tits higher, exposing more delicate flesh.
She drops her arms and tries to slide past me. That’s twice tonight.
I grab her wrist in my palm as she passes, stopping her retreat, and turn her back to me. “We’re not at work, and I don’t mean this as ‘harassment’” – I use air quotes. “But your dancing is sexy as hell. Just didn’t know it was you is all.”
“And what’s wrong with me?”
I throw my hands up in a don’t-shoot gesture and back away slowly. That’s a loaded question, and I won’t walk into that trap tonight.
I wink as I leave her there to soften the blow. I return to the table in the corner where my teammates are.
Or were.
“Where are the rest of the guys?” I ask Marshall when I slide into the booth.
He nods to the floor and to Carlson and Mattis dancing and flirting with a small crowd of women.
“Fake names or real ones?”
He levels me with his eyes. “We’ll know soon enough. Carlson might get away with being Rico the albino pool boy, but Mattis is as subtle as a wrecking ball.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“If he dropped his real name, the place’ll be swarming in thirty minutes.”
An hour later, the place is packed. Bodies writhe on the dance floor, and the lights swirl over the crowd bathing the place in odd colors.
I came here to flirt and, if I’m honest, to get laid. I need to burn off some sexual energy, and one night with a nameless and faceless partner would go far enough with my current situation.
Livy Morgan being here has ruined that. Sort of.
I’ve watched her twirl, sway, and shimmy against men and women alike.
I take another sip of my drink and try to be subtle as I adjust my growing cock under the table.
Marshall slides out of the booth. “I can’t wait any longer. I found my target.” He nods at a gorgeous dark-skinned woman at the bar who is all elegance and class who holds herself removed from the fray.
He pushes his polo sleeves up, displaying more of his ridiculous biceps, and walks with purpose—a man on a mission—straight to her. I’d watch more, but my eyes are drawn back like a magnet to Livy.
It takes a moment to find her and not because she’s subtle in a short baby-pink wig and skirt that barely covers her ass. But because she’s practically pinned by some dude that missed the memo on acceptable personal space, even in a club. He might as well be caging her in.
She leans backward in an unnatural position as he leans closer and hovers around her. When his hand wraps around the back of her neck, pulling her closer, I move.
Without thought and without considering the consequences, I stride straight through the crowd, not caring what I’m creating in my wake, and grab him and toss him sideways.
The fact that I didn’t consider the fallout is evident immediately.
He was still holding Livy when I made my move, and she topples with him under his hold.
“What the fuck, man?” he screams from the floor and quickly regains his feet, throwing a punch.
It clips my jaw, and I see red.
I won’t allow a second one, but I’m in a shit situation because I can’t respond with my fists.
The music screeches to a halt, and I extend a hand to Livy who is sprawled on the floor where she landed when he threw her aside. “Are you okay, Pix?”
She shakes her head and rubs the back of her neck as she stands. I brush her hand aside and lean down to see an angry handprint reddening where he touched her.
My anger is rising, but I hold it in check as I slide her behind my back, keeping a hand on her hip.
In what looks like a rehearsed maneuver, Mattis and Marshall are immediately at my sides, bowed up, arms crossed, with their legs planted wide. They position themselves just ahead of me. It’s a show of force to anyone who would think to make this a mass brawl.
I face the man. “Leave now.”
“Or what? Are you a pussy? Can’t take it like a man?” He spits at my feet and wiggles his fingers in a come-on gesture.
My eyes never leave the man. “You attacked a woman. She has a mark on her from your unwelcome grip. That’s assault.”
“Just because you couldn’t land her and I could doesn’t mean you can get all jealous. Go home, boy. Leave this to the real men.”
I laugh at that. He might be right about my jealousy but he’s about to get a lesson in running his mouth. This should be fun.
“You want to fight?” I ask, only to feel a tug on the shirt at my back.
I offer a light squeeze to reassure the woman there.
People are gathering. Carlson appears behind the man. To our left a woman in a ridiculous outfit pushes her way to the front of the crowd calling Livy’s name.
Handsy man smiles.
“Yeah, let’s do this.” I turn to Marshall.
“Call the police. Miss Morgan and I want to press assault and battery charges against Pencil Dick here. I’ll call George, clue him in, and ask him to have my attorney draw up whatever it takes to sue.
The man obviously wants a fight, so we should give him one. ”
Marshall’s wide, white grin breaks across his face. “I’ve missed the sound of breaking people’s bones, but this will suffice.” He turns to the man. “Pencil Dick, I’m assuming that’s not your legal name. How shall we address the legal paperwork?”
The man turns to run but is immediately captured and held by Mattis.
He has no idea that the defensive tackle has the reflexes of a jungle cat, and his target was easy prey.
“Now, now,” Mattis begins. “There’s no need to leave.
Real men, as you said, handle their business.
Pussies run. Are you a pussy, Pencil Dick? ”
The crowd begins to laugh, and sirens whirl in the distance.
Confident my teammates have my back, I turn to Livy. “I’m sorry. I have quite a talent for ruining a moment. Want me to get you home?”
“Sabine and I Ubered.”
I turn to look at the creeper before turning back to the woman who looks up at me with trusting pale brown eyes.
“Is that Sabine?” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder, worrying for the first time that I misjudged the situation very badly.
Livy shakes her head as a woman who wears Christmas tinsel on her head extends her hand. “I’m Sabine. I saw everything if you need a witness.”
I dip my chin, acknowledging her.
“Let me get the two of you home. Or I can get one of the guys to drive you if you’re ready now.”
“Don’t I need to stay for the police statement?”
“Depends. Do you want your name to be in the paper? And on Google? And the front page of the tabloids tomorrow?”
She shakes her head, dropping her eyes to the floor.
I take her chin between my thumb and forefinger and lift her eyes to mine. “The Livy I know goes toe-to-toe with me. She doesn’t hide.”
A small smile plays on her mouth as she bites her bottom lip.
Fuck me. It’s like the universal sign for let’s smash. But I don’t think that’s what she’s saying.
“Your call, Pix. Do you want to roast that fucker for touching you? Or do you want me to keep you out of it and let them charge based on his punching me?”
“Pix?” Sabine asks, looking at Livy.
She looks at her friend and shrugs.
When she turns back to me, she lifts her right hand to my jaw, cupping the swelling heat there, “Let’s do this,” she says. “Then you need to ice that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I turn and place a hand on her lower back, guiding her back to the group. She’s tiny, and my hands are huge. The one resting on her warm skin almost spans her entire lower back.
She stops short before we make it to the group and looks up. Her eyebrows pull together. “That’s not the first time you’ve called me Pix. Do I want to know?”
Livy
“You remind me of a pixie.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but I’d swear there’s something earnest in his eyes.
“I say Hobbit size.”
He stares down at my feet for a beat too long. “Nah, your feet aren’t hairy enough. Oddly shaped, that’s true, almost like an ogre’s, but I still have to go with pixie.”
“Hairy enough?” I stare down before looking up into a full-on Layton Ranger grin. Mischief plays in his eyes.
Good Lord, the man is charming.
“You ready for this?” he says, not seeming worried in the slightest.
“Omaha. Omaha. Omaha.”
“Nice try, but I’m no Peyton Manning.”
“Few are.” I tip my head as if it should be obvious.
“I’d be offended if I weren’t faster than he is, not to mention younger and hotter.”
“Meh.” I shrug. “I guess.”
“You guess?” He turns me and leads me back the few feet to the team, talking over my head.
“I might ask the paramedics to check you for a concussion. Your brain got scrambled when you fell.” He follows this with a mumbled, “You guess… Definitely some kind of head trauma. Maybe even eyesight issues too. Can’t see straight. ”
He can’t see the smile that he brings to my face or know the relief I feel from his ridiculous, inane ramblings.
The club manager appears on the floor, trying to sort things out.
I can only assume fights are bad for business, especially one that warrants turning the house lights on and stopping the music, much less bringing in the cops.
He seems to rush, trying to throw his weight around as if to make everyone cower.
He stops short as sheriff’s deputies enter the fray, hands on the radios at their shoulders and hovering at their hips.
“Matty?” one asks, his face lifting to Arthur Mattis. “What’s up?”
Art drops the creepy man he’s been holding with his arms pinned behind his back and steps around him. He does that weird, man shake-grip thing and tugs the man into a hug, slapping his back, before the officer steps backward toward his crew.
“I’m assuming this guy—” Art nods at creeper man. “Is too smart to run with y’all around.”
Creeper man slices his eyes to Art before leveling them on me. The hate in them is chilling.
The deputy turns to his brothers in uniform. “If you don’t know Mattis, he’s our hometown defensive tackle. He’s also a great friend to LEOs. He organizes a toy drive at Christmas for kids at the local hospitals.” He turns back to Art. “How many people participated this year?”
“Motorcycles in the toy run? Three hundred or so this year. Donated toys, thousands at least. I had to hire someone to help. It’s growing. Appreciate your help, Dean. I really do.”
The general manager turns his wide-eyed stare to Art, and I can see the light finally dawn.
He twists in a circle, looking from face to face with a handful of NFL players.
It’s as if the cartoon dollar-sign eyes pop from his eye sockets.
He must know he can leverage this and immediately stops acting pushy.
“Officers, please do what you need and stay as long as you’d like. Soft drinks, water, whatever you’d like, are at the bar. Please let me know how I can help.”
One offers a curt nod. “We’ll let you know.” When he turns back to the group, he continues, “What happened here?”
I step forward and extend a hand. “I’m Olivia Morgan.
” The officer takes in my outfit, and I realize how little credibility I must have in these clothes and a pink wig.
I tug it off, fluffing my long brown hair so it cascades down and provides some coverage of my skin.
“I was dancing here with my friends and that man wouldn’t take no for an answer.
When I declined his advances, he grabbed me by the neck and told me I was asking for it by the way I was dressed and he would ‘give it to me good’ for being a dick tease. ”
There’s a growl behind me as a warm palm lands on my back, spanning me hip to hip.
Layton stands to my right and extends a hand. “Layton Ranger. Miss Morgan is the team’s physical therapist. When I saw her being harassed, I stepped in to remove her from the situation.”
The deputy looks over my head to who I can only assume is the creep. “And you would be?”
There’s not a word from behind me.
“Sir, I can arrest you and book you to get your name. Or you can answer me.”
“Gerald Tustin.”
“And, Mr. Tustin, is what Miss Morgan said accurate?”
“No. She was dancing with me, practically climbing me—”
There’s a cough and a “you wish” from one of the players behind me. I can’t determine who, but I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
“She was climbing me, asking me to make it good for her.” The hand at my back flexes. “And I told her I would. Then she tried to play innocent.”
“And you grabbed her, leaving a handprint on her neck?” the man next to me growls.
“Mr. Ranger, we’ve got this.”
“Did you grab her, Mr. Tustin?”
“Not any different than anyone dancing in a club would. Touches and squeezes.”
I raise my eyebrows and level my eyes on one of the deputies. He raises a finger to creeper, interrupting him.
“Miss Morgan, is that right?”
“I never made a play for him nor asked him to make anything good for me. That’s absurd. I was rebuffing him and trying to add distance between us as he reached out. That’s not the touch of people dancing. That was the touch of control.”
“Bitch,” Gerald spits.
I look back at the deputy. “This isn’t going to get anywhere with an audience. Do you need a sworn statement from me? I’ll do whatever you need, but I won’t listen to someone lie and demean my character. Not after that same person physically assaulted me and threatened more.”
Again, there’s a flex at my back. At least I’m safe in a situation that feels so out of control.
The lead officer steps back, and his circle follows to discuss something privately.
When they return, one comes straight to Layton and me. “We’re going to make this quick. You mind staying put for a few?”
I nod as a deep, “Whatever you need,” rumbles above me.
Officers move throughout the space with one making his way to Gerald as Art still hangs near him. Another goes to Marshall. Yet another starts walking through the crowd.
I shiver, only now realizing how cold it is without the throngs of bodies pressing in and the exertion of dancing.
Layton pulls my back flush against his front as Bean approaches. She widens her eyes at my situation. “Well, this was…” She looks around at the people milling about and the officers questioning and taking notes. “Eventful.”
“We can’t ever say we’re bored.”
“Seriously.”
“Remind me to consider police activity when choosing a wig and shoes next time.”
“This is a thing?” Layton asks as he extends a hand to my friend. “I’m Layton. I didn’t mean to be rude earlier.”
“Sabine.” She shakes his hand. “How do you two know each other?”
“We work together,” I offer Bean. To Layton, I add, “Not our first rodeo. But it’s the first time requiring law enforcement.”
I can’t be sure, but I think I hear, “And your last.”