Sell My Soul (Sixty Days 1) - Page 63

I struggled for focus on the figure approaching, not even daring to hope they’d come to my aid.
How could they?
Why would they?
They were likely just another druggie on a quest for another wrap at the cost of everything.
But they weren’t.
Oh my God, they fucking weren’t.
“I’d suggest you put the girl down if you have a single brain cell between the four of you,” the voice said, and my world really did spin this time. “Or believe me, you’ll be tasting a lot worse than fucking dirt.”
Him.
Oh my God. It was him.
My legs didn’t hold me when Weird Lips dropped his grip. I fell to the floor like a broken doll, barely able to look up at them as they headed in his direction.
“Who the fuck are you?” I heard Weird Lips say. “What the fuck do you think you’re fucking doing?”
And that’s when my question was answered. The burning question I’d been obsessed with for days.
“I’m Brandon Grant,” my beautiful stranger told them. “And that girl over there is my fucking property.”Chapter Thirty-OneBrandonThese loser dipshits were nothing. Shit stains on the dross of life’s crappy fucking underwear.
I lit up a cigarette as I approached them, not even breaking a sweat as they squared up to me.
“If you haven’t heard of me, you’ll have heard of my father,” I told them. “Harrison Loader Grant, of the Grant Drake partnership.”
One of them started. The others were gormless enough to stand dumb.
I sighed aloud as I realised the full extent of their worthlessness.
They were nobodies. Barely connected to anyone worth any fucking thing in this backwater shithole.
“Believe me,” I said. “If you haven’t heard of us, you’d better turn tail and run real fucking fast, because you will do soon enough. I’ll have your guts delivered to my mailbox while you’re still screaming.”
The head of them was a bloated little fuck up. His face told the story of a more than a few lost battles in the fists department.
“This girl is paying a debt to us,” he said. “You can get in the fucking queue if she owes you shit.”
“Oh, she owes me,” I sneered and shot her a look. “I guarantee she owes me considerably more than she owes you.”
They followed my gaze and stared back at her, and I used the moment to grab the ringleader by his throat, pulling him into my grip and wrenching his neck taut enough that he buckled under me.
The others rushed forward but only a couple of paces.
I knew then that I’d tear them all to pieces if it came to it.
“I can call my associates in a heartbeat,” I told the prick in my grasp as the others dithered gormless with fists bared like sad fucking lumps of shit. “I’ll have them down here while you’re still choking on your own fucking bollocks, ready to pitch in and finish your friends off while I enjoy my cigarette.”
“You’re the posh guys from London,” the only vaguely savvy one of them commented. “The politics ones.”
“Politics?” I laughed. “You’ll find out exactly what we’re involved with if you hang around much longer.”
He nudged the guy next to him and flashed a glance. I knew then that I had them without having to get my hands too fucking dirty.
“You must be connected to the Bridstows,” I continued. “From Portsmouth way.”
Two more pairs of eyes opened wider.
“If you aren’t part of them, you really should be. They’ll be more than happy to hear my report on how you touched my property without consent.”
“Hey,” the guy on the right said and shot his eyes to the guy dangling limp from me. “We can’t fuck off the Bridstows. Let’s fucking talk about it, yeah? Take it up back up with the Phoebe girl and forget about her sister?”
“That would be a very wise move,” I said. “Why don’t you help her to her feet now and hand her over?”
I took my chances and launched the prick from my arms, bowling him like a sack of potatoes into the legs of the others. They sidestepped as he hissed for breath, rubbing his sorry neck like he was checking he still had one.
I held out my hand to little Miss Emmerson with a stare like death as one sorry asshole reached down and pulled her to her feet.
She could barely move, legs a mess as she pushed off him and stumbled towards me.
I grabbed her hard, fingers crushing her upper arm as she pitched herself to my chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Her bag and her books,” I said to the cunt who’d picked her up for me.
The others stared dumb as he bent down to gather them. Paige held out a hand for her bag as he offered it, but I took it before she had the chance.
“Are we done here?” I asked the crowd, and three of them nodded.