Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 111775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
My pulse pounded in my ears. Was he … was he helping me?
“What the fuck do you want?” the ringleader slurred, but he remained silent. The drunk barked a cruel laugh. “Jesus fucking Christ, are you simple? Get out of my way.”
He shook his head and took a step closer, crowding the drunk guy.
“Are you seeing this prick?” he shot off to his buddies.
“Give him a few jabs, Marty. That’ll sort him,” his pal said.
“Maybe I will.”
Still, he didn’t move a muscle. I had no idea why he was getting involved. These arseholes were my problem; though, it did make my stomach flutter he’d stepped in.
I could practically feel the tension of every single passenger watching the altercation as the vehicle came to a stop. A few people hurried off the bus, including the woman who’d been sitting next to me.
“Hey! Are you lot getting off or what?” the driver called out.
“Yeah, just as soon as I put this prick in his place,” the drunk replied, straightening his shoulders.
Oh, crap. That wasn’t going to end well. Acting on instinct, I rose from my seat and managed to slide in between him and the drunk. I didn’t acknowledge the drunk, instead fixing my attention on him. I wasn’t sure what possessed me when I pressed my hand to his chest, my palm sliding against the rough fabric of his jacket. I looked at his face, but his eyes were fixated on my hand. Then he looked up, those probing eyes meeting mine as I shook my head.
“It’s not worth it,” I said and noticed how those eyes had now lowered to my mouth. “Ignore them,” I went on, my voice quiet but insistent.
“Hey, Red, never mind this prick. Come for a drink with us,” the drunk said, and I felt him touch my hair just before his hand gently went to my waist, pulling me back behind him as he glared bloody murder at the drunk for touching me. I sensed he might hit him right before the bus driver emerged from his cubicle, wielding a crowbar of all things.
“Right, that’s it. You lot,” he shouted in a thick inner-city accent, pointing the crowbar at the group of troublemakers. “Get out now before I bate the heads off the lot of yas!”
“Bloody hell, calm down,” one of them said as they huddled together and quickly fled the bus. The driver, who was probably in his fifties, had clearly experienced years of dealing with troublesome passengers. I was pretty sure his bosses would have something to say about him keeping a crowbar in the vehicle, but needs must. It was either that or let troublemakers cause mayhem and walk all over him.
He gave a satisfied nod when they were gone, then everyone on the bus started to clap and cheer. A sheepish smile tugged at his lips. He returned the crowbar to his driving cubicle before waving away the applause. “All in a day’s work,” he said. “Now, I better get you all home before your dinners go cold.”
A few people chuckled, but I was too busy focusing on how he still stood close to me. His hand was no longer on my hip, but I could still feel his touch like it was branded into my skin.
Not knowing what else to do, I glanced up at him, my expression grateful as I whispered, “Thank you,” before retaking my seat. My heart was still racing when a shadow fell over me, and I glanced to my right just in time to see him sliding into the free seat next to me. He never sat beside me. Never.
Everything within me thrummed with awareness. I turned to him, thanking him once more. “Thanks again for stepping in like that. Those guys were arseholes.”
His eyes were focused on my lips again, which made something flutter in my chest, but then he looked me in the eye, brought his hand to his throat and slowly shook his head. There was something pointed in his expression, and I frowned, not understanding. A moment later, it dawned on me. Oh … oh.
He couldn’t speak.
“You’re deaf?” I asked, but he shook his head again and touched his throat. My eyes lowered to the smooth, olive skin of his neck, startling when I saw the slim scar. I’d never seen a scar like that on someone’s throat, and I hadn’t been close enough to notice it on him until then.
Suddenly, it made sense why he hadn’t responded to me yesterday. He hadn’t been able to. And now I felt terrible because all that time I’d thought he’d ignored me.
“You’re mute?” I said, unsure if that was the correct term.
Finally, he nodded, a warmth in his gaze that made my cheeks heat. I glanced at the silvery scar again, wondering what happened to him. Was he in some kind of accident? Such injuries were rare but certainly not impossible.