Текст книги "Because of The Brave"
Автор книги: ZA Maxfield
Соавторы: Laura Baumbach,Josh lanyon
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Because of the Brave
Z.A. Maxfield, Josh Lanyon, Laura Baumbach
Warning This e-Book is intended for adults only as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. It contains explicit material including violence, as well as consensual and non-consensual sex. Please store your e-Books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.
Thank you for your purchase of Because of the Brave by Laura Baumbach, Josh Lanyon and Z.A. Maxfield. Fifteen percent of this purchase at the Aspen Mountain Press web site between now and September 11, 2009 will be donated toward the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network.
Because of the Brave
Because of the Brave
Z.A. Maxfield
Josh Lanyon
Laura Baumbach
Aspen Mountain Press
Because of the Brave
Designated Target
Laura Baumbach
“Don't worry about the stuffing, Mike. I've got it covered. I don't have any place else to be tonight. You just keep the food coming. I'll dish it up.”
Steam rose from the eight foot serving stand, the warm, moist vapor a welcome change from the frigid fall air outside. Carson slipped the large metal basin of stuffing into the open rack and quickly covered it. The heavy rectangular lid clanked against the steel base adding one more cheery, riotous sound to the noisy room.
Thursday nights he donated time to the food bank. Tonight was one of the coldest of the year and a holiday to boot. The basement was packed, mostly with people just looking for a warm place to spend a few hours out of the cold. The free meal didn't hurt either.
Hands covered in a pair of the thin silicone gloves like all the other volunteers working the food line, Carson used the absorbent sleeve of his Henley to wipe away the newly formed sheen of steam-generated droplets from his toasty cheeks. He closed his eyes, buried his nose in the crook of his elbow and drew his arm down his face. Unexpectedly, the two-day-old bruise on his left cheek soared to life. He winced and pull his arm away fast. A small annoyed breath escaped him. Christ, I need a shower.
He wished he could wash away the memories as easily as the sweat he was working up. The painful area around his eye throbbed, making his eyes water.
Steve, you wanker, you certainly left your mark on me, man. Literally. Goddamn control freak. Two dates and you were trying to run my life more than Jim did when I
was fifteen. Big brother Jim would beat the crap out of you if he was around, you'd better believe it, asshole. He'd use every army ranger skill he had to make you suffer in ways you couldn't even imagine and he'd get away with it too….
If he hadn't died two months ago in some mysterious, classified mission. Fucking 'need to know' rules wouldn't even let me know where or how or why. Jim loved the army but sometime the US government sucks big time!
Wincing, Carson sighed and scratched his nose with his wrist, waiting for the tears to evaporate so he could face the people around him. He had friends here but he wasn't going to explain the bruise or the watering eyes. Or talk about the pain in his chest whenever he thought about his brother's untimely death.
The people here weren't that close to him. No one was, not since grade school. He'd been out of high school for six years, losing contact with everyone from home when he moved across the state to join the research and development division of Advantage's software house. Communications was his thing. But with computers not people.
Which is why you're alone in a room full of complete strangers for the holiday instead of spending it with someone.
Regret mellowed to resignation that mixed with a touch of lingering anger with himself. Whiner. Suck it up, Crosby! Spending the holiday here alone is better than spending it in the emergency department again. Sure, you've got great health insurance, but let's not put it to the test. And yeah, it would be better if Jim was here, but he's not and he's never going to be again. Get used to it.
Raising his head, Carson opened his eyes to look out over the crowd. The church basement was laid out with long tables placed end to end for the length of the large, drafty room. Lines of folding chairs that has seen better days were arranged down both sides of the tables and more were stacked in the corners of the room. Holiday decorations dotted the tables and the walls, all of them looking like they came from the Sunday school and day care patrons' busy little
fingers and eclectic imaginations. They were colorful and bright if not always recognizable, but still pleasing to Carson's watering eyes.
Pleasing. Just like the man standing less than six feet away, towering over the service table, talking to Mad Lacey, the old eccentric who haunted the four city blocks surrounding the church they were in. Mike, the food bank's overworked coordinator, said she had a home of her own and never seemed to need anything. She was such a constant figure at the food line, Carson tended to forget she wasn't one of the many homeless that came to the basement. He watched a rare smile light up Mad Lacey's face, the old woman seemly as captivated by the towering man as Carson.
Carson hadn't even heard the stranger walk up to the serving area. Considering the guy had on heavy boots and was no lightweight, which took a fair amount of stealth and skill. Carson had excellent hearing, even in a noisy room.
He had to wear earplugs when he was writing software—to block out the rest of the world. Something he maybe did a little too often outside work. Right now he could hear the deep timber of the man's smooth voice; low, strong, and confident.
Broad and brooding, tall and dark. The guy's six foot plus frame had several inches on Carson's five foot nine, and the man outweighed him by at least seventy pounds. All of it in hard muscle. The man's tan T-shirt stretched across his linebacker shoulders and thick upper arms, straining around a thick neck, smooth as a second skin over hills and valleys of sloping, taunt skin.
“Lord, have mercy.” It popped out before he could stop it, but what the hell. He was in church. This guy was definitely attractive.
Being a detail junkie had its drawbacks, but now the talent served Carson well. He couldn't stop himself from taking in every possible bit of information about the man he could pull in visually. The man was all testosterone and steroids, alpha male, macho to the max and hard as stone. And probably so
straight he had trouble bending to sit down. Some days it wasn't easy being gay when all you were attracted to was big, bad, macho men, most with an eye for ladies only. The last thing Carson needed was another shiner to match the one Steve-the-Asshole had gifted him with last night.
The tan fabric clung to the man's sides and sculptured abdomen, showing muscle that told of hours of physically intense, daily workouts. The deep tan and calloused hands said the guy did his workouts somewhere besides a gym. The short, spiky dark hair, ironed fatigues and polished, high-top black boots shouted military loud and clear. Carson could see a worn spot on his belt where Carson's imagination supplied weapons to hang off the webbing.
Carson closed his eyes. Everything about the man screamed control and order. Walk away, now. But he couldn't. He needed one more look before he crossed the guy off his list of things to wish for this holiday season.
The thighs under the pant legs looked like sides of beef, powerful and long. The man's boot size had to be over thirteen. Carson's gaze jumped to the callused hands again. They were proportional to the rest of him.
An old wife’s tale sprang to mind. Before he could stop himself, Carson's stare eyes dropped to the man's crotch, instantly wondering what lay tucked away behind the rough bulky folds of thick fabric and fasteners. His imagination supplied a vivid reason for the respectable fabric bugle, making his own close-fitting jeans suddenly less comfortable.
He blinked when he felt heat rise in his cheeks, embarrassed by his body's immediate reaction. You're supposed to be here helping out, not mentally feeling up the patrons. But he really didn't think this guy needed a soup kitchen to grab a hearty meal. Not with that body.
Christ, how hard up are you, Crosby? It hasn't been that long since you got laid. Okay, maybe it has, but how many teeth do you want to lose to copping a look?
His frustrated libido grabbed his common sense and stuffed it into a bag. Darting a guilty glance to get one last longing look at the rugged man's tanned
and weathered features, Carson physically flinched. His unguarded and needy gaze was hit full force with a dark, unwavering stare.
Sometime during Carson's inspection of bronzed muscle and long bone, Mad Lacey had wandered away leaving Military Man alone. Alone and staring straight at Carson, his dark eyes, almost black, glaring out under squinted lids.
The man's gaze followed the path Carson's had traveled, dropping down to his own groin. Then stranger's stare moved from his crotch to Carson's, slowly, pointedly crawling up Carson until their gazes met again. The expression on the man's face was controlled, measuring, without a hint of what he was thinking.
He might have been thinking how attractive Carson was. Or he might have been thinking of a dozen different ways to kill him without being caught. He was definitely military and Carson knew from his brother that any well-trained soldier could kill if he wanted to eliminate someone.
Carson didn't doubt the guy could do the job. There was a distinct element of danger to that inky, silent stare. Then the squinting eyes relaxed a tiny margin and the man's unsmiling lips parted slightly, a mere twitch that smudged the edges off the man's hard look. The sudden change whispered of physical attraction.
Carson felt a chill sweep down his back, a shudder of anticipation, while the flush of embarrassment still heated his neck and face.
It was times like these he hated his fair, usually pale complexion, starkly framed by even paler blond hair. Added to his slight but athletic build, quiet personality and geeky job, he was often invisible to hunky guys like this one. Once in a while someone noticed his eyes. Since this guy was trying to bore a hole through Carson's head with his eye-to-eye laser beam gaze, Carson guessed this one had noticed them.
Every memory Carson had of a comment about the way he looked hinged on his eyes, the swirls of white streaked through the vibrant green gave them the appearance of green turquoise. His parents had described them as bright,
intelligent and stunning. His classmates in school had called them alien, bizarre and freakish.
At twenty-six he’d finally come to accept them as natural, mother nature's own unique stamp. Women seemed to find them exotic. Most men wouldn't maintain eye contact for long, as if being attracted to his eyes made them sappy schoolgirls.
But this guy was no giggling pre-teen and he didn't seem to have any problem staring into Carson's eyes. As a matter of fact, for once Carson was the one getting uncomfortable from the prolonged moment.
The heat in his face receded but the stirring in his jeans snugged the fabric tighter. He shifted his weight, moving just enough so he could angle his hips behind the cover of the steamer. Eye contact remained unbroken. Carson felt his breath turn ragged and his heartbeat quickened, thudding against his ribs.
Now who was acting like a pre-teen?
The clock kept ticking and the guy kept staring.
Carson wanted to step back and run, hide out in the kitchen, find a nice mindless job like peeling potatoes for the next three hours where the only thing he had to think about was the ache in his bruised face and the burning of his scratched cornea. Steve 'I-don't-take-rejection-well' Fuckwad just had to be wearing a ring when he lashed out. The staring contest was making his eyes dry but he refused to be the first one to turn away. For some reason he didn't want to look submissive to this guy. One dominate jerk brushing up against his life at a time was enough.
A thick, mucous tear tickled down Carson's cheek from his injured eye. He needed to put more ointment in it. The hours went so fast between applications he had trouble keeping track of them. Eye red and weeping, Carson knew he looked like he had been crying. One more reason to dislike the abusive want-to-be boyfriend. Bastard.
Carson carefully brushed the streak of wetness off his discolored cheek. Too much pressure would make his whole face throb. Then again, maybe the tearing had a higher purpose. Maybe GI Joe would think he was just a blond twink, a sniveling weakling, and walk away, giving Carson a chance to take a deep breath.
Pain won the battle with his ego. He closed his eyes and counted to five, then blinked rapidly to clear away the gathered moisture, determined to look at something other than dark eyes and mountains of perfect muscle when he opened his eyes. He'd give the guy plenty of time to break away. He counted to five again just to be sure.
Or not.
'GI Joe' had moved but it wasn't away. Now he was so close, just a thin serving table width away, that Carson could see the gray flicks in his eyes and the light shadow of stubble on his square, rugged face. Movement caught Carson's attention and his gaze dropped to dusky pink lips; lips that were taunt, moist, inviting and, oh yeah, moving. Moving like in saying words.
“What?” Carson blinked again.
“Your eye. You seen a doctor?”
“A doctor?” The concern in the guy's voice sounded genuine but Carson shied away.
He liked looking at the guy but the last thing he needed was another control freak trying to pin him to a wall and fuck him standing up instead of saying goodnight and leaving like Carson had desperately wanted Steve to do. He might be small but he could knee a guy with the best of them. Having an Army Ranger for a big brother had its benefits. Jim had made sure Carson knew how to protect himself if he needed to.
“Yeah. It's okay.”
“Doesn't look okay.” That laser stare grew impossibly more intense. The soldier rested both meaty, tanned hands on his fatigue-covered hips, his broad shoulders loosing a degree or maybe even two of rigidness. “Cornea scratched?”
Relaxing minutely, Carson nodded. “A ring.” Studying the man's less threatening stance and sympathetic expression, he added, “How'd you know?”
“Been sucker punched a time or two.” The man walked to the end of the table. Now the guy was only two feet away. “Doesn't have to be fist metal to do damage. Gloves will do it too with enough force behind the hit.” The hard glare returned and washed over Carson again. “You don't look like the type to go looking for trouble.”
It was harder to hide Carson's physical reaction to the man with him this close. Hoping to keep attention focused away from his obviously interested crotch, Carson kept talking. “I don't, but I don't run from it when it happens either.”
When that bit of bravado was met with silence, Carson grabbed at a few conversational straws. He was not going to talk about dating disasters with this stranger. “Why don't I think you mean class rings when you say fist metal?”
“Because I don't.”
The quiet statement hung in the air, letting Carson's imagination fill in the blanks. He shrugged off a cold touch on his spine. Yep, this guy was all power, control and steely force. Walk away! Walk away! Absolutely not Carson's type.
“You get in a bar fight?” He was nothing if not persistent.
“No.”
Fed up with the questioning, suppressed anger pushed aside any attraction Carson felt. Might as well let the jerk think he was a wuss. At least the questions would stop and the guy would go away. “I don't drink.”
Sticking a serving spoon into the stuffing, Carson turned and moved away from the table toward a small alcove beside the kitchen doors. He leaned his back
into the cool plaster wall and closed his eyes, letting some of the tension drain from away.
When he opened them, a wall of tan over a very well-defined chest blocked his view of the room. One look up and those dark, curious eyes pinned him in place again.
Christ!
If he googled 'tenacious' Carson bet this guy's picture would turn up with the definition. He'd check when he got home. Home. It sounded like a good idea right about now. His headache was back full-force.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
A whiff of aftershave mixed with the food odors, dark, sharp and spicy. The vision of this macho guy rubbing a mixture of gun oil and cinnamon on like cologne popped into Carson's head. Then the gun oil dripped onto other body parts and Carson had to blink to clear away the mental picture before his jeans strangled his dick.
“Why don't I drink?” His cock ached and his sac turned heavy, the weight frustratingly thrilling. He hated to admit it but being this close to the guy was like being handed a big bag of warm, buttery popcorn and then being told you could look and smell, but not have any.
“Why did the guy hit you?” A large finger pointed at his face. Carson instinctively flinched then reddened at his own reaction. Frowning, the guy froze in place. Slowly he lowered his hand to tap Carson's unbruised chin in a brief, tender caress. He dropped his hand, adding, “You can answer about the drinking later.” His low voice was sounded huskier to Carson for some reason.
He fought the overwhelming urge to spill his guts. It wasn't like he could tell his friends about his latest dating mistake. And he wouldn't have to. By the time the first of the year rolled around and he was due back to work, most of the outward evidence of the assault would be gone. That's one of the reasons why he
was here helping out in the soup kitchen instead of attending one of the many holiday parties planned with his buddies from work. At least the whole mess had distracted him from thinking about Jim being dead and his having to spend his first holiday truly alone since their parents had been killed.
But this stranger demanded to know what he couldn't tell anyone else. And damn it, Carson wanted to tell him. Whoever the hell he was.
“Who are you?”
“Nobody.” The man shrugged and then smiled, a smile that touched his dark eyes. “Someone who doesn't like seeing beautiful things crushed. The world can be ugly enough without some A-hole marring some of its best scenery.”
He paused, studied Carson's face intently then flatly stated, “You've got great eyes. Not just the color, that's a looker, sure. But the swirls of white make them almost hypnotic. You could be damn dangerous to be around.”
Was this guy actually trying to come on to him?
“And you're crazy.” The last person he expected poetic charm from was this muscle-bound, mountain of spit and polish. It was unexpectedly sweet but…. “Crazy with a capital 'C'.”
Pain flared in his face. Carson gently pressed his fingertips over his bruised eyelid, the burn increasing with each passing minute. Fumbling in his pants pocket he worked the tube of eye ointment out into his palm, the warm metal of the tube oddly reassuring. Relief was on its way. As soon as he got rid of Mr. Romance.
“Crazy? I guess you could call me that. But most call me China.”
“China? Like in dainty porcelain?” Surprise made Carson arch his eyebrows. Pain shot through his face. “Sonofa-!”
A tear ran down from the corner of his eye and he carefully palmed it away. He couldn't wait any longer. The emergency room doctor had cautioned him to keep the scratch from becoming too dry. He didn't need an infection in his eye.
He opened the tube of ointment, but needed a mirror to do it right. Maybe the dirty glass in the kitchen door would work. Before he could take a step away the tube was plucked from his hand.
“Give me that.”
A rough finger under his chin gently tilted Carson's face up. He tried to keep his gaze focused on anything except the rugged face looming six inches away. The smell of spice and physical heat made him inhale sharply. He lost the battle to refrain from making eye contact.
China stared back at him, dark eyes watching, powerful body still as death until Carson realized the man was waiting for some indication that he could continue. The guy was big enough to flatten Carson like a bug, take whatever he wanted, and he was silently asking for permission to touch him.
This was unexpected. Nice and unexpected.
Looking at the pitted, grease spotted ceiling tiles, Carson nodded, steadying himself with a hand on the wall behind him. His legs felt shaky. “Crazy, like I said.” He was startled to hear the slight waver in his voice. Maybe China wouldn't notice but Carson somehow doubted much escaped this guy.
“They both start with 'c' but, China works better. All my friends already know it.”
The lower edge of Carson's irritated eye was eased downward. He tried not to blink, anticipating a spurt of ointment flooding his eye. Instead, a thin ribbon flowed onto his lower lid, easing into his eye as the skin was slowly eased back into place.
It felt so good. Like the heat of the warm palm pressed to his jaw and throat holding him steady, encouraging him not to jerk away. A blunt fingertip massaged the red-purple skin in light, soothing strokes.
Carson automatically closed both his eyes, letting the medication melt with his body heat. Back against the cool wall, his chest nearly touched a wall of sweltering human heat. Carson's cock moved on its own, trying to close the small
gap between them. He tried to move away, but there was no where to go. Thank god the alcove blocked them from the direct view of the dining room.
Take a step back, big guy, before I embarrass myself.
Coffee laced breath fluttered his eyelashes. Low words brushed his cheeks. “China. Like in the third largest country in the world, not counting disputed territories. Can you say that for me?”
The sarcasm wasn't hard to detect, even with his eyes closed. “Like a bull in a China shop?” Carson blinked through the blurry goop and focused on China's face.
The wry smile there startled him. GI Joe had one killer smile when he tried. Especially when that sparkle of mischief glinted in his eyes. Carson felt his insides melt. This guy is in serious danger of losing his straight card!
“You know the Chinese invented the compass and gunpowder?”
“Important needs for an action figure like you, I bet.”
The teasing was fun but the tight squint was back around the dark eyes. The sparkle was still there but the squint kind of canceled it out for Carson. Carson nodded at the tattoo on China's muscular forearm proclaiming its owner a member of the US Army. “I mean…you being military. World travel, guns, bombs.”
“They are important. How can a guy find treasures like you and set off fireworks to celebrate it without them?”
Okaaay, GI Joe never owned a straight card. Ever.
The hand dropped from Carson's face but its heated imprint lingered. A funny, twisted, tingling sensation uncoiled beneath Carson's sternum. It surprised him, made him duck his head like a school girl. It even pulled a smile to his lips. “Christ, you are crazy.”
“Never said I wasn't.” But the squint vanished. “Sometimes crazy can be a good thing.”
Crazy for you, maybe?Yeah, right. In the space of three minutes. Dreaming doesn't make it so.
There was that certain…something about the way China look at him now and then, like he was supposed to be able to read between the lines and hear the rest of the man's thoughts, the ones that were to private to say out loud. It was irritating and intriguing. It made Carson want to spend more time with him just so he could figure out the unspoken communication code the big man used. The guy was becoming a challenge to Carson's puzzle solving fetish.
Even so, Carson was unable to ignore the nagging voice in his head. The one that muttered about how long it has been since a guy had said nice things to him without wanting sex. He rubbed his chest, trying to lessen the tightness. “Carson.”
“Carson?”
“My name.” It had actually come out before he'd realized he was going to say it. The tightness uncoiled a little. He couldn't resist flashing the smile he knew had helped him win over coffee shop waitresses to college professors all his life. “You China, me Carson. You know, like the huge, powerful country versus the small, but prosperous and charming city.”
The smile seemed to have the same effect on China, making the big man's quirky half-smile widen into a grin that showed even, white teeth and a dimple in his one cheek.
“Carson. I always thought that was a nice name.” China said it just the way Jim had, splitting it up between the 's' and the 'o' to make it sound like 'cars-un'. “Thought I was going to have to call you Dangerous all day.”
No one had said his name like that since Jim's last phone call home months ago. The huge gapping hole that had just begun to heal after his brother's death split back open. His throat constricted and the pit of his stomach grew heavy, cold as if he'd swallow a giant snowball whole. It didn't seem right to feel good, not today.
“I'm not going to be here all day. As a matter of fact I have to leave right now.” Carson slipped around China, doing his best not to make physical contact with him. His dick had lost interest the moment he heard China say his name, but he wasn't taking any chances. His desires had to take second place to doing what was right. “Excuse me.”
Without waiting for a reply, Carson was through the kitchen doors and out of reach. He caught Mike's attention as he wove around volunteers and boxes of food, gesturing at the back door to let it be known he was leaving.
Mike frowned but nodded, concern making his eyes narrow, but he did his usual one-shoulder shrug of acceptance. Carson grabbed his yellow ski jacket off the wall and shrugged into it, pulling a brown knit cap over his blond hair that failed to capture all the wayward, pale curls. He zippered the coat as he walked out the door, taking the back steps two at a time despite the slippery, rapidly accumulating ice and snow.
Shoving his hands deep into the pockets to search for his gloves, he realized they must have fallen out back in the kitchen. He'd grab them later. Mike would know who they belonged to and keep them safe.
Head down, Carson buried his nose in his jacket’s high collar, thankful for the warm down and thick nylon to break the icy wind that had kicked up. Ice and snow crunched under his boots.
He was just past the recessed archway that lead to the tiny church cemetery when he was suddenly jerked to a halt, his back hitting the stone wall deep inside the archway hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Stars danced before his eyes but not enough that he didn't recognize the sneering face looking down at him from far too close a distance.
“What are you doing here, Steve?” It was hard to talk with a fist jammed up against his chin. Steve's gloved hand gripped a handful of Carson's ski jacket, pulling it and Carson up until Steve's jaw practically scraped Carson's nose.
Winter wind licked at Carson's cheeks and dry lips. Icy fingers wormed under his scrunched-up jacket to numb his unprotected ribs and belly. Carson looked toward the doorway he’d just come out of but couldn’t see past the archway. No one was going to notice them from inside the church unless they walked out here into the freezing cold and the odds of that happening were slim. He’d have to deal with this alone. The rough surface of the brick behind him abraded his exposed lower back, the sharp points of mortar gouging his skin like needlepoints. Still, the sensation was more pleasant than either the sudden rising nausea in his gut or the twisted, dark look on Steve's face.
“Just passing by, Angel. Thought I'd say hello. Miss me?” Steve studied Carson's swollen eye and colorful array of bruises. “Looks like I gave you plenty to remember me by.”
It was tough but Carson managed to force the words past his clamped teeth. “You're an abusive creep, Steve.” He forced both is arms between them and pushed hard. “Let go of me.”
Startled at the sudden move, Steve changed his stance slightly to one side. It gave him more leverage on Carson's upper chest. He forced Carson higher up the wall, shoving his fist hard under Carson's chin.
Up another inch Carson wouldn't be able to stand on his own without help. He figured that was pretty much the asshole's plan. One of the first things he'd learned about the guy was Steve liked control.
“Harsh words, Angel. I don't think you gave yourself enough time to get to know me properly.” He leaned down and nudged Carson's hair working the knit cap off in the process.
Carson felt the hat roll off his shoulder then disappear. He shivered at the sudden loss of protection, feeling exposed and vulnerable to both the wind and his attacker.
“You know what, Angel? Since it's the holiday season I decided to be generous. Give you a second chance. I'm a great guy. Ask anyone.”
“Yeah, you're a real fun guy, Steve. The staff in the ED thought so, too. Now let me go.”
“Did you tell them my name?”
“Touch me again and it'll be cops I talk to not nurses.” Carson worked at keeping his tone level and firm. The asshole wasn't going to get to know how scared he really was. Steve was big. Not as big as GI Joe had been but big enough to be a problem. “Get your hands off me.”
“You ungrateful little shit!” Steve's restraining hand gripped Carson face and turned it to the wall, grinding his cheek into the brick.
Day old bruises scraped over centuries old brick and stars danced behind Carson's eyes. Enough already, asshole! He grabbed a hold of Steve's jacket with both fists and pulled his legs up, hanging from the other man's body only long enough to drive a knee into Steve's crotch. The ragged shout was as satisfying as it was explosive. If he got another round of bruises from it, it was worth it just to hear the surprise in the jerk’s voice. Should have expected it after last time, dumb fuck. Some guys never learn!
Steve curled forward, his weight partially pinning Carson to the wall, but his grip lessened enough Carson's feet were back firmly on solid ground. Before Carson could wiggle out from under him, Steve pulled back a fist and let it fly at Carson's face. All he could see was Steve’s fist and the guy’s malicious grin. Then a vise wrapped around Carson’s upper arm. His feet left the ground for real this time, his body yanked sideways. Steve screamed like a little girl when his fist hit the brick wall.
