CHAPTER 12
LYDIA'S POV
I was excited. Giddily so! It had been ages since I last went to a bar. Eons actually. No, that's a lie, it's been approximately three months and two days since I was last at a bar.
Of course, I wasn't there to get drunk, I was there to drag Natasha's drunk ass home, it was exhausting and after she left me with a broken hip (that a friend of mine healed, thank the lord, if it was still broken I wouldn't be able to have sex with my mates. And that would suck. Not that we've, you know, but I ain't opposed it) she went to rehab and within five days was off the alcohol. Unrealistic turn around time, I know. But she is an unrealistic woman. That is an assassin. So honestly, I don't even know what to expect out of her anymore. Just saying.
Anyways, that was a blast because we both ended up fighting four about thirty minutes, accidentally killed four people (thank God half the press blipped) and absolutely DESTROYED the entire building. As in, the windows where smashed five times, there were seventeen holes in the walls, the bar itself was unsalvagable, and by the end, I might have accidentally set it on fire. It was amazing!
I have not told this to my four escorts, who are pretending not to be my escorts, for obvious reasons. Those reasons being that they would most likely not allow me to enter the said building and fight one of their past friends slash ex-team-leader or whatever. Actually, they would probably realize why I was gifted with fourteen mates to begin with. I'm told I can be a handful. Not that I would know what anyone is talking about. I personally think I'm a ray of sunshine. As in, I'm warm and cuddly with an ozone layer protecting you, but if you loose that ozone layer I will destroy your entire world and burn you alive.
That was intense.
Like the sun.
Sorry, I'm so excited I can't help but make internal dialogue jokes.
I make myself laugh and that's all that matters.
"Quite standing at the door and smiling like a fucking looney-toon and get that fine fucking ass inside the bar."
"You know I'm underage, right? Isn't the academy against breaking laws or something."
"The academy should not be discussed in the middle of a queue with a bouncer waiting for your ID. You have compulsion, I saw it on your file, use the gift you were given Ms. Stark."
"First off, Mr. Monkey-suit, no sex for a week because you won't stop being grumpy. Secondly, when the damn fucking hell did you get time to read my file? And where the hell is it?"
"I don't get sex anyways, darling, so blue-balling me doesn't bother me anymore. And your file was very entertaining to read, for example, how is it that you managed to get attacked and kidnapped by penguins and forced into their exhibit at the zoo when they never had the opportunity to break out of their exhibit and commit said kidnapping?"
"Fuck off. I'm going to show you fucking blue-balls Owen Blackbourne."
The laughter over the ear-piece makes me smirk a little, followed by Owen grumbling about me being a vixen and undebatably right. I know, mate, I know. The woman is always right, in case you were wondering. Even if your head is up your ass.
"Let me in the bar, please, and thank you," I ask, well compel, the bouncer, whose eyes glaze over as he unhooks the rope to allow me and my sexy self to step through, "Oh, and forget that you ever saw me or heard this convo, yeah?"
Sauntering into the doors it didn't take long, as in the second I walked in, for me to find the exact man that I was looking for. The reason it didn't take long was that I might have actually run into him. LIterally. I just ran nose-first into this sexy asshole, and now my eyes are watering and my nose is pulsing.
"Watch where your fucking going, bitch." He snaps, glaring at me as he shoves me out his way and proceeds to the booth where you register to fight.
That asshole did not just run into me, mess up my eyeliner, call me a bitch, and then scamper off like a little bitch. Oh hell no.
It took thirty minutes for me to get on the fight list thingy. Thirty fucking minutes. And then fifteen more (along with twenty-thousand cash) to fight Axel. His name must be said with as much anger and general pissy-ness as possible. This bitch is going down. Drunk or not, he's going to be roadkill. Depressed or not, I'm going to hang him up like my mother (the original) hung up Chlamydia pills. That didn't make sense. She didn't have money for Chlamydia pills, obviously.
Moral of the story, Owen and Gabriel think that they got the mean version of me. Imma ten-buck-two this guy like a kangaroo! Okay, fine, I'm going to teach this Axel exactly how Natasha taught me to teach men that think they can talk to women like that. Without the assassination part. According to my therapist killing is not the answer. Neither is stabbing someone in the eye with a letter opener. Or dropping a brick that you summoned from God knows where onto their toes. Or even, this one is ridiculous, setting their clothes on fire because they pulled your pigtails. My therapist sucks, honestly, and little me was so fucking savage.
I was up next to fight this Axel guy. He had honestly pissed me off.
None of the boys, men, whatever you wanted to call them, that had come with me (all four of them had, even though they were undercover, they didn't want this guy to recognize them), knew that I was planning on fighting. Well, I technically didn't plan on fighting, kinda. I didn't plan on fighting too much. I mean, I didn't plan on burning down the bar. So that has to count.
If only these idiots were smart enough to realize that by using my charming looks and grace to get Axel to listen and leave the bar, I meant using my heeled boots and fists. Possibly not my fists though, I don't particularly like getting blood on my hands. Or anything on my hands. It's much easier to hire someone to do your dirty work.
Don't tell Captian I said that. He would make me train more. Or ground me, which isn't any fun. He's already informed me that Natasha has a gruesome training session planned out for when I get back to the tower. Apparently I can't just up and runoff in the middle of the night. Or take the jet even though it's my jet.
"Up next in the ring, we have fan-favorite Pocahontas," Yes, I paid them to change his name as well, "And newbie sparkling-unicorn-dust!" The announcer broadcasts across the bar, and immediately I can see four figures, that had been spread out casually, making their way towards me. Bloody worry-warts. I totally won't kill him.
Bouncing into the ring before any of my guys can get to me I smile as cheerfully at the Native American man standing before me. He was really easy on the eyes. Nowhere near as stoic or bold as Owen or Gabriel. He wasn't as bulky and threatening as Raven, or as cocky looking as Nathan. He seemed sad, his eyes, they weren't filled with the fire of life, they weren't empty either, just sad. The shadows in them seemed to dig a lot deeper than any of the other men I now called mine. That's depressing. If I wasn't mad at him being the one that left the word "bitch" engraved on my skin since was a kid, then I would hug him.
"You look like the kind of person that would make them change my name to Pocahontas," he pauses, looking me up and down, "If I apologize for saying that to you, will you kindly step off the stage so someone capable of fighting me can have a go?"
Rolling my eyes, stupid asshole, I smirk lightly. He had no idea what he was in for. If he hurts me Raven is so going to pummel him. Nathan too, he's proven to be just as sexily possessive as the rest. It's really fun to get under their skin. Just saying.
The announcer drones on with rules that I should probably be paying attention to, one of them being no using one's powers or something. Mutants are way to common now for them to be hid in secret government facilities and special schools. Even though both still exist. The Academy is technically a special school, even though it's not.
As the referee steps up, blowing his stupid whistle, and lets us know that we can now savagely attack each other, I cross my arms.
To end his life or not. To provide myself with a fabulous story for the rest of my life or not. To trick him with something stupid and then make a distraction and give the crowd a show, or not.
"Did you know babies are born without knee caps," I blurt out, a slow smirk curling the corners of my lips, "They don't appear until the child reaches 2-6 years of age."
Axel freezes, his eyes widening as he brings his hand up and presses it against his chest, or heart, or whatever. That must be where my, his, words are. That's cute. His words on me, the one that calls me a bitch, is right down the inside of my thighs. Highly inconvenient if I ever want to fuck someone. Or fourteen someones. I sound like such a damn slut, a sexy and amazing slut, but defiantly a slut.
The apple must not fall far from the tree.
Just like Axel isn't falling far from his upright position to the floor. That's going to defiantly bruise. After all the work I've put into saving him, he goes and passes out the second I say something to him. I no longer want to give him a hug.
The earpiece crackles back to life, Owen's seriously creepy calm voice washing over me as he simply says, "Bad girl," into his mic piece.
I'm so not letting him get his hands on me again. My own father didn't spank me. And Owen has not been upgraded to Daddy yet, so he can't either.