The Stranger 42

Just a quick note to explain some things about this submission. This story is a long one, and I'm currently writing the next few pages. So apologies, but there's no sex in this one! I'm using the first couple of pages to build up a bit of tension between the characters. I promise I'll do my utmost to make it worth the wait though. In addition, any constructive feedback will be much appreciated.

Many thanks, and I hope you enjoy my work!

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Entering the dim bar situated on the edge of town, I briefly considered walking back out. It was a single room, dark, dingy, with a low ceiling and a seemingly permanent haze of stale cigarette smoke. Definitely not my kind of place. I'm not a twin set and skirts kind of girl, don't get me wrong. In fact, I was wearing faded black jeans, heavy boots and a white t-shirt. I mentally berated myself for leaving my jacket at home, and feeling like I could use an extra layer of protection from the Neanderthals in here, I glanced to my left. A group of big, rough bikers congregated around a pool table, obviously belonging to the Harleys propped outside the door. With hardly an inch of tattoo - free skin between them, and a lot of hair, I was feeling more than a little scared. Especially when one of them licked his lips lasciviously at me. Extending the middle finger of my left hand towards them, causing them to collapse in raucous laughter, I walked purposefully to the bar, and propped myself on a stool.

Leaning my arms carefully on the edge of the sticky bar, I glanced at the bartender, who was absentmindedly...polishing...a glass with a filthy cloth. Ordering a beer, without the glass, I scanned the right hand side of the bar. Crowded in that end of the long narrow bar were a couple of tables, and a tiny gas fire that looked like it hadn't been updated since the swinging sixties. There was a guy sat at a table by the high grimy windows who caught my attention. From what I could see, he wore a battered leather jacket, and clutched a double whisky in his right hand. His left was dexterously twirling a silver ring around his index finger.

Averting my attention, I could barely make out my reflection in the dirty promotional mirror behind the shelf of dusty bottles of spirits. Long black hair framed my face, overly large blue eyes and a wide mouth detracting from a face that could have been pretty if it wasn't for that. Lifting the cool bottle to my forehead, I was surprised to find tears brimming in my eyes as my thoughts turned to Tommy. Ah, Tommy. A six foot linebacker, sandy blonde hair, and a body worth dying for. He had been attentive at first, winning me over with a kiss. Then I heard rumours that he had told practically everyone in the town I was crap in bed. And used that to justify cheating on me with Shelly, the buxom blond airhead. As far as I was concerned, they deserved each other.

Feeling eyes on my back, I turned my head slightly. The guy in the jacket seemed to be watching me, but as I turned he looked away. I wasn't in the mood for flirting after being dumped for a skinny cheerleader anyway. But still, I felt the pull of this guy, as if he was sensing me, rather than blatantly checking me out. Returning to my beer, I wallowed in my own misery for a further ten minutes, before the door crashed open, rousing me from my reverie. Three heavily built young men entered the room.

"Well, lookie here boys!" came a loud, booming voice. "A piece of ass, all for us!"

"Breathe the other way Tommy, your bleaching my hair. Or better still, just stop breathing." I coolly responded, watching his face turn an unflattering shade of red.

"Fucking bitch!" he spat, grabbing my wrist and yanking me off the barstool causing it to clatter to the scarred hardwood floor.

"Oh just go slit your wrists, it'll lower your blood pressure," I taunted. "And let go of my arm, asshole, I haven't finished my beer."

Tommy turned, as if to drag me out of the bar, his rage visibly boiling, only to find his path blocked by the strange man from the corner. Studying him more closely, I figured he was about five foot eight or nine, just slightly shorter than Tommy. Slightly long, curly black hair and an unshaven face gave him an air of dishevelment, added to the fact he also wore scuffed hiking boots and torn stained jeans to complement the battered, black leather jacket. Leaning around Tommy, he spoke to me.

"Everything alright miss?" he asked, his voice deep and smoky. I noticed his eyes were almost luminous, a bright green, edged with long dark lashes that strangely made him look more masculine than the broad shoulders and aura of danger. Fighting my automatic dismissal, I realised as soon as Tommy got me outside, with two friends, I was up the proverbial estuary with no means of propulsion.

"Yeah, actually, these guys are leaving. Without me," I said, as I wrenched my arm free. Nodding sharply at me, he returned his disconcerting glare to Tommy.

"Now why don't you guys just go, before somebody gets hurt? Correction; before you get hurt" the stranger growled.

"Fuck off, weed," Tommy snapped, as his cronies gave false guffaws at his oh - so - withering response. The stranger grasped hold of Tommy's shirt with a quickness that surprised everyone, spun around, and tossed him against the wall by the door with apparently no effort. Sprawled against the wall, he looked up at the stranger furiously, his face now an even more unflattering shade of purple.

"Kill the little fucker!" he screamed. With that, the guy on my left swung his powerful fist, connecting with the stranger's jaw. Staggering slightly, he smoothly head butted the heavy, who was sent crashing to the ground. While they were busy fighting, I sensed my chance to escape. Sidling away towards where I hoped would be a back door, I paused and turned to find the Tommy throwing punches at the stranger, heavy, hard blows, which he either ducked completely or weathered, as if he was holding himself back. I noticed the second guy pulling something from his pocket. A knife! Lunging at the strange guy who was now preoccupied with Tommy, preparing to stab him. I picked up the closest chair and hurled it at him. Bouncing wildly, it caught the back of his knees and he hit the deck, but not before stumbling into strange guy and nicking the side of his neck. With blood now pouring out of the cut on his neck, he turned and savagely kicked the guy in the nose, breaking it with a disgusting crunch. Picking up my bar stool, I whacked Tommy across the head with it, before grabbing my rescuers' hand and pulling him out the door. Running across the parking lot, I unlocked my dusty black pickup truck and practically threw him into the passenger seat. Dancing around the empty load bed, I dived in the driver's seat and started the engine.

"So, where to?" I gasped, a little out of breath from our sprint across the lot. My passenger just shrugged.

"Don't have anywhere to go, Miss," he drawled in a sexy southern accent. "But we better get moving, the cops are on their way, and I'd sure like not to get locked up for this." I strained my ears, and sure enough could hear the faint strains of the police sirens.

Gunning the engine, I peeled out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel. Driving aimlessly, I wondered what to do with my new friend. Speaking of which...

"What's your name? I'm Lilian. My friends call me Lily." He looked a bit confused.

"Kurt" he eventually answered.

"Well, Kurt, how about we get you to an emergency room, and take it from there?"

"No!" he snapped, "I just need to wash it, that's all." Reeling a bit from the sharp tone of voice, I started to head back to my place. I couldn't exactly leave him on the street, bleeding and hurt, could I? No, I couldn't. But there was something strange, almost wild about him.

"Ok, how about this. We go back to mine, clean you up, and you can sleep on the sofa", I proposed. Thinking hard about what I'd just said, he nodded slowly.

Driving to my place took us another twenty minutes, all of it in silence, through some small farm lanes, before I pulled up at my house. It was a tiny cottage situated at the end of a lane, a low rough stone wall bordering the property, rescuing it from the encroaching forest. I saw a hint of a smile curve Kurt's full lips before he winced at the pain in his ribs as he eased out of the truck. Wondering if this had been such a good idea, I started up the short concrete path to my door. Unlocking the little red wooden door, I stepped inside. The cool air hit us instantly, the benefit of having stone floors. The door opened directly into one room, a small couch and television in one corner, and a desk, chair and two bookshelves crammed in the other. The other half of the room was taken up with a tiny galley kitchen and small table and single chair.

I stepped over to the kitchen and grabbed my first aid kit and a bowl of warm water. Adding a few drops of disinfectant to the bowl, I motioned Kurt to sit on the couch. As I stood there waiting, he just looked at me with those sparkling green eyes.

"You're going to have to take your t - shirt off, Kurt," I said. "I can't clean your wound like this."

Standing, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of the couch. Raising his arms above his head, he yanked off his shirt; now bloodstained, wincing as he did so. I just gaped at him in what was probably a very unbecoming manner. He was a god! Broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, his hipbones showing above his jeans that were riding low. A thin trail of black curly hair ran from his bellybutton, heading south below his waistband. Defined abdominal muscles rose above this, and as I dragged my gaze up to his chest, which was crossed with scars, as if he had been gouged by something a while ago. Seeing the blood smeared across one side of his chest, I remembered why he was half-naked in my house in the first place.

Dipping a cloth into the water, I gently began to bathe his wound. He snarled at me, a sound deep in his throat and yanked away as the disinfectant stung his cut. I grabbed his arm to hold him still, pulling him closer to me as we sat side by side on the sofa. Engrossed with cleaning the wound, I finished the cleaning, and thankfully, it was only deep enough to warrant a gauze dressing. Once I had finished sticking the dressing on, I used the cloth to wash away the rest of the blood staining his incredible chest. I absentmindedly traced his scars with my fingertips. Most were three or four parallel stripes, similar to a cat scratch, but deep and much bigger, as if not an ordinary house cat, but a tiger.

"How did you get these?" I asked, my voice sounding throaty, as if I had just woken up. Not surprising, since I realised his hand was on my knee, fingers tracing small patterns on my denim - clad leg. Electricity shot up my leg, making me gasp. I noticed I was sat sideways on the couch, my right knee drawn up horizontally between us, my left foot on the floor. That was the knee he had his hand on, and I could feel the heat of his skin burning mine.