The Goode Fight

by Seth King

  “Listen,” I say with a gulp, “I really have to pee, and I need to-”

  “There you are, baby. I got our drinks, just like you asked.”

  I look over and see Stellan Goode standing in front of me holding up two beers. As I stare at him in confusion, Luc looks from Stellan’s face to his hulking shoulders to his formidable biceps and then loosens his grip a little, but for some reason he’s not done yet.

  “She’s talking to me, bro,” he tells Stellan, his voice shakier than he probably intended. “Back off.”

  Suddenly Stellan’s expression starts to turn deadly, furious, venomous. His entire body language shifts, making him look like a predator about to attack; his head down and his shoulders forward and his knees slightly bent. As I leer at him I can’t decide whether he makes me want to collapse against the wall in ecstasy or run in the other direction in terror. For the life of me I can’t figure out if he turns me on more than he scares me, and I get the inkling that people probably feel that way about him quite often. Whatever the case, his halo has officially left the building.

  “She doesn’t look like she wants to be talking to you,” Stellan growls back.

  “Well she does, so piss off.”

  The muscles in Stellan’s jaw clench as he turns to me.

  “Here, baby,” he says as he holds out the glasses. “I need you to hold our drinks while I fuck this guy up.”

  Once I resume normal brain function I take the glasses, ignoring the electric current that zaps my finger when our skin touches, and set them on the nearest table. As I turn back around Stellan lunges forward, grabs Luc by the collar of his jacket, and shoves him up against the wall, rattling several paintings in their frames and making our glasses tinkle and clink on the table.

  “We gonna have a fuckin’ problem here, chief?” Stellan snarls inches away from Luc’s face, his lips curled and his voice poisonous. “Because I will have absolutely no shame in beating the fuck out of you right here in front of everyone.”

  Something primal stirs to life deep within me as I watch Stellan glare into Luc’s face. His eyes beady and cowardly, Luc shakes his head.

  “Uh, no, man, sorry, I was just leaving,” he squeaks. “I thought I knew her from somewhere, and I didn’t know she was your girl, so, uh, sorry about that.”

  “That’s right, you’re sorry,” Stellan grunts. “Fuck off and don’t bother her again, or it’ll be the last thing you do, I promise.”

  After pinning him to the wall for a few more seconds Stellan finally releases the poor guy, who stumbles for a second before finding his balance and scurrying away. As he disappears into the crowd Luc mutters something that sounds like “fucking psycho,” but thankfully Stellan lets it go. As my heart pounds in my ears he finally looks over at me, fierce protectiveness shining in his eyes.

  “Are you alright?”

  I put my hand on my chest to make sure my heart didn’t just explode out of it.

  “Yes, I’m fine, thank you. That was…amazing of you, really.”

  He closes his eyes. His face pained and his fists pulled into tense balls, he licks his top lip and then bites his bottom lip, leaving them both wet and shining. Coupled with his overwhelming presence, it’s almost too much for me to handle.

  “No problem,” he mumbles at last, his eyes still closed. He says something else, something too low for me to understand over the loud bar chatter.

  “What was that?”

  Finally he opens his eyes again, and they’re stormier than ever. “Nothing. I was just trying to calm myself before I chase down that guy and beat his fucking face in for touching you like that.”

  I literally swoon, my knees fluttering under me. If this was all I needed to get Stellan to talk to me, I think to myself, I would’ve paid Noah to hit on me an hour ago. Still, I detect a hard edge in his voice, and I can’t help but wonder if it is partly directed at me. Does he regret saving me from that guy? And if he does, then why on earth would he have done it in the first place?

  “Sorry for the language, but I can have…a bit of a temper sometimes,” Stellan continues as he rubs his temples. “It can be difficult to shut down.”

  A bell goes off in my head. Here is an angle I can use to restart my seduction scheme and keep him from fleeing like last time: I just need to help him hit his Crazy Button.

  “Okay,” I begin nervously, “well, my Aunt Susan is a therapist, and I’ve learned a few things from her, so I actually think I know of something that can help you. I owe it to you, after all. Here, give me your hand, if you don’t mind.”

  Part of me can’t believe I just asked him that, but the other part reminds me that there are only a matter of minutes before he realizes how massively out of my league he is and runs for the hills, so I’d might as well try and make it last while I can. He stares at me, guarded, but slowly extends his right hand. When I take it, the reaction is immediate- my brain becomes a soupy mess of incoherence while every nerve ending in me springs to life like I just got hit by a bolt of lighting in a summer thunderstorm. As I try to get my thoughts under control I notice that his hand is huge and veiny, and I can tell by the feel of it that he probably has the body fat percentage of a professional athlete.

  Among other attributes.

  “Okay, now close your eyes and visualize a set of lungs breathing really quickly,” I tell him, praying that my wacky aunt’s techniques actually work on someone besides me. I know I can’t share my exact Crazy Button method without sounding like a psycho, so I use another of her tricks. “Now picture the lungs slowing down. Envision everything calming down, returning to normal. Feel the blood leaving your brain. Imagine a cold breeze on your skin; pretend you hear the ocean in the distance. Now you’re starting to breathe at a normal pace. You’re calm, relaxed, and everything is good. You’re officially chill.”

  My body goes rigid as I release his hand and wait for his verdict.

  “So…?”

  Stellan opens his eyes, the furious glare somewhat softened. “Wow. It worked. You’re like human Xanax or something. That was awesome.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him a little awkwardly. As I stand there he looks me over for a moment and seems to change his mind about something, deciding against some previous conclusion he has come to. Then he suddenly flashes a dazzling smile at me, making me practically melt into a puddle on the sticky floor.

  “Well, Taylor, now that the trouble has passed, I guess I should apologize for my previous behavior and properly introduce myself,” he says smoothly as he stands up straighter. “You caught me at a bad time before at the fireplace, and I’m sorry about that. I’m Stellan Goode. I’d shake your hand, but I’m pretty sure I just did.”

  “Taylor Haney,” I blush. Ugh, why does my face have to betray my feelings so often? It’s like I have a direct line from my emotions to my expression, and I can conceal nothing I feel from the outside world. “But I guess you already knew my name.”

  A strange, dark look comes over his eyes. “I did. All too well, actually.”

  An involuntary shiver runs up my legs. What is with all these weird mood swings of his? To keep the conversation light I motion at the drinks he brought over before the drama.

  “Are those yours?”

  “Ah, sorry, let me,” he says as he takes one of the freezing glasses from the table and hands it to me, grabbing the other for himself. “When I saw that you were in trouble, I asked the bartender for the quickest thing he could get me before I headed over. I wanted to have something in my hands so I wouldn’t be able to clock the guy in the face just in case I lost my temper right off the bat. I don’t even know what kind of beer this is; I’m not a huge drinker.”

  “Knowing Noah,” I smile, “it’s probably some hipster beer or something. I guess he’s all about local brews and stuff now that he works here.”

  Stellan cocks an eyebrow. “Who?”

  “Um, Noah Pilate, the bartender. He’s an old friend.”

  “Oh,” he responds, his ey
es flashing. Why would he care who I’m friends with?

  Before I can process this my phone rings, and the name I see on the screen kicks me into full-on panic mode. I angle myself away, answer the call, mumble “Can’t talk now, call you later, bye,” and hang up before he can say anything. I turn off my ringer since I know he’s going to call me back again, probably several times, and then shove the phone into my pocket and turn back to Stellan. That is one situation he cannot know about yet, under any circumstances.

  “Who’s Scott?” he asks, looking discouraged for some reason. “Boyfriend?”

  Shit, I think. He saw.

  “Oh no, I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say quickly, realizing that I need to change the subject- and fast. The prospect of what I want to tell him next fills my stomach with anxiety and makes my legs quake with fear- and anticipation- but I chug a little beer and will myself to do it anyway. The elusive Stellan Goode is standing in front of me, and this could be my one and only shot to get with him and prove Cara wrong. I mean, he already said he wanted to hook up with me- now it’s just a matter of wearing down his resistance, and I’d be able to do that much better in the privacy of my own home.

  “Question,” I begin. “How long were you planning on staying here tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” he frowns. “I only got dragged out because it’s my cousin Kane’s birthday. I’ve been over it for a while, though. I’m not really big on the whole bar thing, to be honest.”

  “Well,” I begin cautiously, “I’m still kinda freaked out from that incident with the creeper, so if you don’t mind, would you give me a ride home whenever you leave, if it’s not a huge problem? I’m not exactly looking forward to waiting around for the next two hours while my friend who drove me here throws herself at every guy she sees. I live, like, ten minutes away.”

  Stellan bites his lip, torn between two options I cannot see. By the looks of it, he’s just been asked to jump over a fiery pit of lava, not leave a bar on a quiet night with a perfectly normal-looking person. After a few seconds he grimaces and then stares down at the floor, despairing over some mysterious far-off tragedy, and I am struck by the sudden desire to reach out and touch him. This tortured quality in him draws out feelings I have only previously experienced while looking at Internet photos of kittens taking naps together, and it confuses the hell out of me, because I also want him to ravage me. Combine those sentiments with the terror he sparked in me during the Luc showdown, and that makes for a very weird mix of emotions, to say the least.

  Suddenly the crowd shifts and I spot Luc staring at me from across the dance floor. Unable to see that Stellan is next to me, he winks, and in my peripheral vision I see Stellan’s biceps bulge under his jacket.

  “You know what?” he says through clenched teeth. “Let’s just get the checks and get out of here now. I don’t really feel like breaking any faces tonight. Do you need to tell your friend that you’re leaving?”

  As my stomach swirls I look over and spot Cara giving googly eyes to a muscular guy with bicep tattoos sitting a few seats down the bar from her. Although I want to see the look on her face when I tell her I’m leaving with Stellan, I’m so eager to be alone with him, I shake my head. I’ll just fill her in tomorrow, when I’ll actually have something sexy to report.

  Hopefully.

  “No,” I tell Stellan, “I’ll just text her later. I’m pretty sure she’s occupied for the night.”

  His expression turns earnest. “Good. Let’s go then. But I just want you to promise me one thing first.”

  “Yes?”

  He takes a hard swallow. “Just promise me that we won’t do anything bad.”

  As I stare at him, blood thumping in my ears, I reach around and cross my fingers behind my back. “Oh, sure. Don’t worry about me.”

  His gaze becomes even more intense. “It’s not you that I’m worried about.”

  As my mind races with questions once again he swivels around to the bar and asks for the check. When he gracefully rests his hands on the counter I notice that his nails are bitten nearly down to the quick, and this strikes me as odd, a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t fit. Soon the female bartender hands him two slips of paper, and I watch in confusion as he bends down and signs both of them.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

  “Getting the checks, like I said I would.”

  “Um, I thought you said ‘check,’ as in yours, not ‘checks,’ as in mine, too. I’ve been here for like an hour, you don’t need to pay for the drinks I got earlier.”

  “Oh, but I do, Miss Haney,” he says without looking up. “It’s a small price to pay for such good company.” He tosses down the pen and smiles. “Let’s get out of this shit-hole, shall we?”

  I follow him across the bar, giddy anticipation rising in my belly. I turn back one last time and suddenly lock eyes with Cara, who is staring at me open-mouthed. I flash a goofy smile, lift up my hand, stick up my middle finger at her, and then turn into the chilly night.

  Stellan holds the door for me and we start down the sidewalk together, and after about a block he stops next to a shiny black two-door Mercedes coupe parked along the street. Oh, come on, this is not his car, I think as Stellan gets out his keys and opens the passenger door for me. He’s perfect-looking and rich? When are they going to reveal that I’m trapped in some cheesy romance novel or something, and none of this is really happening?

  “Is this really your car?” I ask as I slide in, making him laugh modestly.

  “Oh, it’s an ’05, it’s not that nice, trust me. And do you care if I put the top down?” he says as he gets in and puts his hand over a button. “It’s a nice night, and I can turn the heater on if you get too cold.”

  Of course it’s also a convertible, I think. “Sure, I’d love that,” I lie, knowing full well that the wind will make my hair look like a crazy homeless woman’s. “I’m in the Torrance Place townhomes, off 70.”

  Once the metal roof retracts and folds into the trunk he pulls away from the curb and zooms down the dark street. We ride in silence for a minute, and as I stare out the window I notice that for some reason I am more aware of Stellan than I have ever been of anyone or anything. Every nerve ending in me is alive, every sensor working on overdrive to gather every necessary detail about him. I get a sudden and overpowering wish to reach out and touch him again, to see what his skin would feel like, but I push it down. Does he feel like this, too? Is he equally drawn to me, or does he just look at me like I’m another random girl trying to get into his pants?

  I glance over and see that his jaw is set in an intense scowl and he is gripping the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles are turning white. There it is again, that strange anger. What did I do to him? And if he hates me, then why is he driving me home? Whatever the case, with his confident driving skills, the journey passes in a flash, and I have no more time to wonder about all that.

  “Turn here,” I say as we approach my street. After I show him the way to my townhouse he parks and slowly turns to me.

  “So…here we are,” he says stiffly, the air becoming tense. My pulse races and my hands slicken and I know that this is it- it’s now or never. I either let him slip away, or grab him and hold on tight.

  “Um, do you want to, like, come in for a drink or something?” I ask softly. “I’ve got some wine in the fridge, and it’d probably be good for your nerves if you had a little nightcap and chilled out before you went home. I mean, it’s the least I can do to repay you for tonight.”

  He stares at me intently, grappling with that same internal conflict from before. I want to think that it just has to do with the Christian thing, but my instincts tell me more than that may be going on.

  “Sure,” he finally says, looking anything but sure. As butterflies explode in my stomach I get out and head for my door, and after I fumble with my keys he follows me through the narrow hallway between the downstairs bedroom and the tiny kitchen that spills out into the living room.
r />   “Sorry for the mess,” I say as I spot my rarely used running sneakers on the floor and a haphazard stack of mail on my foyer table. My roommate got a bad case of mono and moved back home after a month, leaving me with the townhouse to myself and no one to blame the clutter on. But that embarrassment is nothing compared to the reaction I get when I turn around and look at Stellan Goode standing in my kitchen. He’s even more breathtaking in the light, with his alluring eyes and straight nose and splotches of facial scruff setting off his impossibly golden skin. It’s September; why does he look like he just stepped off a plane from Maui?

  “You have blue eyes,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  “That is a fact,” he laughs. “I do, indeed, have blue eyes.”

  I feel like finding the nearest sandbox and shoving my head into it. “I mean, I just didn’t realize it before, because they were so dark. I figured they were brown.”

  “Nope. Navy blue, pretty much.”

  “Cool,” I say. “Mine are…just brown.”

  “They’re not ‘just brown,’” he says as he stares at me, suddenly fascinated, scattering my thoughts in two microseconds. “They’re soft and kind. You have the eyes of a very good person. They’re one of the first things I noticed about you, actually.”

  I forget how to breathe, how to think, how to do anything other than marvel at the fact that this heavenly creature is standing in my messy kitchen telling me I have nice eyes. As I take him in I realize I literally can’t find a flaw on him, which makes an ominous quote my mother used to tell me pop into my head: Beware of the ones that look too good to be true, she would say, because all of their flaws will be on the inside.

  As Stellan’s blue eyes twinkle, his lips set into a mystified smirk. He shakes his head and laughs at the ground.