Every Broken Thing: Far From Ruined Book 1

Chapter 2

There were three of us in the restroom now, not two. The back of a blue T-shirt blocked my view, and I craned my neck around the newcomer as Eric picked himself up off the floor. Why was he on the ground? Had he fallen?

"Last time I checked the dictionary, the meanings of the words stop and no hadn't changed," the stranger stated coldly, the ice in his voice enough to chill my blood. "Unless you're aware of something I'm not."

Eric stood on shaky legs, leaning against the wall for support as he glared at my rescuer with enough fury to set the wall on fire. I blanched at the sight of his open jeans falling down his thighs. "Shut the fuck up, pretty boy," he snarled, puffing out his chest and pointing a fat, thick finger in our direction. "You don't know what you're talking about."

The boy shrugged, his wet, blond curls wiggling. "I suggest you rethink your current plan, asshole, because if you come at him again, I won't be so gentle." The warning rang with an almost smug air as he faced down Eric without a shiver of apprehension.

Eric's fury mounted as he prepared to charge. "Last chance, Blondie. Walk the fuck away."

My savior shifted his stance into one of defense, and I cowered in the corner of the room, trembling in shock. The blond might be taller and broader than me, but he didn't come close to Eric's sheer mass—if this turned into a fight, he would crush him like a bug. Yet he didn't walk away.

Never taking his eyes from my assailant, the boy tightened his fists as he readied for the oncoming attack. "You're not touching him again."

With a bellow, Eric lunged, and a pathetic cry of alarm broke past my lips as I envisioned the stranger beaten to a bloody mess before the psychopath came after me again. But it didn't happen. Eric swung out a meaty fist to land a bone-crushing hit to Blondie's face but, graceful and swift, the boy dodged and struck out his own punch, fast as a viper.

I winced at the loud crack of crunching cartilage as his fist sank into Eric's nose, and for one suspended moment, both fighters froze. Eric stumbled, and his eyes rolled backed into his head. With an anticlimactic thump, he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Staring in awed terror, I waited for him to reanimate like a zombie in a horror flick, but he didn't stir. He lay prone on the ground with his mouth open as blood gushed from his broken nose, the crimson stream pouring down his face and into his gaping maw. Blondie stood over the unconscious behemoth and nudged the body with his foot. When Eric continued his Sleeping Beauty act, he used the tip of his dirty sneaker to angle Eric's head to the side, diverting his blood onto the linoleum instead of down his throat.

Wouldn't want the bastard to choke on his own blood, now would we?

Someone spoke, but the ringing in my ears turned the words to white noise as I stared first at Eric's still form and then at the blond who now faced me. I noticed his cool blue eyes first, like a vast serene ocean rippling with the promise of rapids farther in, and my eyes followed the path of his straight nose past his high cheekbones until they reached his firm jaw. His skin was unexpectedly tan given the October chill confining most Midwesterners to their homes, and his squarish face pinched in an expression of anxiety.

Despite the fear painted on his face, he was stunning, and if we met under any other circumstance, I would totally hit that. I didn't know him, but familiarity teased my brain, like I spotted him in passing but didn't take a second look. Though, why I wouldn't do a double take was an absolute mystery because, damn, he was fine.

His mouth moved, forming words I couldn't understand, and his full bottom lip accentuated by a sparse upper lip momentarily sidetracked my train of thought. The scent of Irish Spring and spearmint washed over me as he took a step closer with his hand extended toward me. My fleeting distraction at his good looks shattered, and I recoiled from his touch automatically as my sour stomach rolled.