The Broken Triangle by Jane Davitt, Alexa Snow Page B

Patrick can get a ride.”
    Riley looked less than thrilled, but nodded and gestured toward the bar. Vin wasn’t sure if he meant he’d get another drink while he waited or if he was pointing out where he’d be. Winding his way through the crowd, Vin headed to where Patrick was remarkably still dancing with the same guy.
    Getting Patrick’s attention wasn’t easy. The music was back to frenetic, and Patrick was having sex with the air, gyrating in a way Elvis would have disowned, his hands over his head, singing along to lyrics the song didn’t have, eye fucking guy-with-glasses, who looked overwhelmed but was hanging in there.
    Patrick spun around, a pirouette he didn’t have room to perform, and wobbled. As Vin got closer he saw Patrick flail his arms in search of his balance and in the process smack the man behind him full in the face.
    “Sorry!” Patrick said, still too far away for Vin to hear it, but he could read lips after years of working in noisy bars. Patrick smiled, at his most charming, and said something Vin didn’t catch because someone pushed past him, blocking his view for a second or two.
    His next sight was of Patrick flying backward, not punched but shoved, a two-handed lunge from a man with blood dripping from his nose, giving the white T-shirt he wore a new, macabre pattern.
    Crap.
    “Hey!” Vin moved faster than he thought possible, getting between the two of them and holding both hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, come on! It was an accident.”
    “He hit me!” The guy sounded muffled from the hand under his nose trying to stem the flow of blood.
    “What the fuck?” Patrick was already scrambling to his feet with the help of his dance partner, who looked shocked by the incident. “I didn’t mean to.”
    “I know,” Vin told him, then turned back to the bleeding guy, who thankfully was starting to lose steam. “It was an accident, okay? Take it easy.”
    “Yeah, whatever.” The man shoved past them, headed toward the bathroom, so Vin was able to focus his attention on the wide-eyed Patrick.
    Patrick adjusted his shirt as if getting it to lie straight was vital. “I’m fine.”
    “Are you sure?” Vin took Patrick’s face in his hands and tilted it, surprised by the degree of worry he felt.
    “Yes.” Patrick was looking at him like they were the only two people in the place, instead of surrounded by hundreds of men and the throbbing beat of the music. “I’m okay. I didn’t hit my head; I landed on my ass. Trust me, it’s had worse.”
    “Why do you always say stuff like that? No wonder people call you a slut. You make them say it.” Worry morphed into anger, and Vin gripped Patrick’s shoulders, shaking him, a rough, impatient action he regretted even before Patrick’s mouth fell open, eyes widening to match it.
    As stricken as Patrick, he stepped back, muttering an apology that didn’t come close to the groveling he should be doing, and collided with someone. Oh God, now what?
    He turned, hoping he didn’t meet a fist flying at him, and found himself face-to-face with Riley, whose carefully blank expression was almost as hard to take as a blow.
    Riley nodded in Patrick’s direction without quite looking at him. “Is he okay?”
    “He’s just fine, thanks,” Patrick said, his voice tart. “Going to have some interesting bruises tomorrow, but it wouldn’t be Sunday without them.”
    “Then why don’t we get the hell out of here?” Riley asked Vin. It felt like he was asking for more than that.
    “Sure. Yeah. Let’s go.”
    Vin felt dazed as they left the club, though he was grateful for the fresh, cold air and the sudden lack of music ringing in his ears. Riley put an arm around him as they walked; he was grateful for that too.
    “What was that all about?” Riley asked, kissing his hair, and Vin burrowed closer to him for warmth and comfort.
    “Patrick hit that guy—you saw how he was flailing around—and the guy pushed him. No big deal.” Vin