Head 01 Hot Head

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Hot Head

Copyright © 2011 by Damon Suede

Cover Art by Anne Cain [email protected]

Cover Design by Mara McKennen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61581-948-5

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

June 2011

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-949-2

To al the heroes of September 11, 2001

who helped when there was nothing

and hoped when there was none.

We remember.

GRIFF saw the whole fight before the first punch landed.

“Faggot!” A shout from across the party.

He hated that fucking word.

In here? Not likely.

Griff reached for his Guinness and stepped closer to his crew. He was standing in the Stone Bone wearing his kilt because Dante and the other guys from the

firehouse had dragged him along. He hadn’t wanted to come out.

Normaly he bounced the Bone’s front door on Sundays, but tonight was September 11th, so he wasn’t working. Big night for a lot of bars in Brooklyn.

Every year since the Twin Towers fel, neighborhood places let firefighters drink free on this night. So the whole gang had come from Engine 333/Ladder 181 to

check out the female talent.

Griff’s best friend was sitting on the bar singing along with the jukebox, using his pint as a microphone; his crooked smile gleamed white in the neon from the liquor shelves. Dante had the kind of chiseled jaw and smooth baritone that ladies loved. At the moment, he was crooning a duet with Dean Martin:

“‘The world… stil is the same… you’l never change it…’”

This was Dante’s way of making sure none of his friends got lonely tonight—playing the dreamboat Italian card like it was Ladies’ Night. It kinda was.

“‘As sure… as the stars… shine abooove;’”

Raised on the Rat Pack by his pop, Dante was dragging a hook and lure through the party’s water for his pals—the ultimate chick-bait wingman.

“‘You’re
no
-body til some-body looooves…’”

Griff snuck a glance, and sure enough, a clump of frisky bedbunnies was drifting toward his best friend—hippety-hoppity, pussy on its way.

“‘You’re nooo-body til some-body cares….’”

A scuffle and another angry shout from the back near the bathrooms. “Fucking faggot!”

Not a joke.
This time Griff turned to look over the heads.

A couple other guys from the firehouse were singing along with Dante. They hadn’t heard the trouble brewing, but if things got fugly, the bar would lose

money. Griff didn’t want trouble. He only bounced on the side when he was off duty, for cash, but the Bone was a great little dive—old-school Brooklyn in a

neighborhood that was getting Starbucked to hel.

At six foot five, Griff had a head and a half on, wel, pretty much everybody. Big as he was, he had been wary his whole life: cat on a rope. It was a handy

knack for a fireman saving lives and a bouncer saving his boss a fortune in repairs and fines.

He lowered his beer. Those shouted “faggots” had come from back near the pinbal machines, and it took Griff al of ten seconds scanning the sweaty,

yammering mob to spot the source.

There.

A ripped Puerto Rican with a faux-hawk had yanked his girl behind him and was glaring at an older dude with a shaved head. Griff squinted, trying to read

the scene over the Sunday night crowd. The girl was beautiful and biracial and looked proud of her angry date.

C’mon, dipstick. Not tonight.

Griff put his pint on the bar and snuck a glance at the door. The security up front was stuck carding drunk teenagers. No way could they make it al the way

back to throw a blanket over anything that broke out. The bartender was puling beers on the wrong end of the counter, and the boozy crowd around the conflict

had other fish to finger on September 11th.

The Stone Bone was packed with city workers celebrating: EMTs and cops and firemen. The anniversary of the World Trade Center attacks always brought

the FDNY and their fans out in mobs, for better or worse. But tonight was ten years since the Towers had falen—people weren’t as somber as they had been

when the wounds were fresh.

Griff watched the two mismatched men more closely. Drug dealer? Loan shark? The bald guy wore a suit, not cheap, and he felt like Manhattan—older,

taler, but outclassed in any fight that the little hombre was bringing.
Shit
.

Baldy was smiling while he talked calmly to the younger guy. The Latino gripped his beer too tight, ready to butt heads, eyes threatening anyone nearby. He

wanted
to go to jail for a drunk and disorderly.

Griff pushed away from the bar, squaring his brawny shoulders so he could plow through the crowd. A frizzy blonde hmmphed at him. Out of the corner of

his eye he saw Dante’s dark head turning as he broke off singing with the others.

“Hey, G! Where’s the fire?” Dante laughed.

But Griff shook his head. He only had a couple seconds to cross the room. A couple folks said his name or thumped his cannonbal shoulders as he passed,

and he nodded helo without taking his eyes off the brawl about to erupt. He could hear them now, the bald guy’s smooth accent as he tried to pacify the kid….

Polish? No, Russian.

Maybe Mr. Clean was the lady’s ex or something? A player trying to make her? A pimp? But why cal him a “faggot” anyways? Maybe he’d groped the

boyfriend accidentaly-on-purpose? The body language wasn’t right, but you never knew with Russians.

Finaly the little Puerto Rican snapped. Shaved-Headovitch realized what was coming but had no exit available; they were crowded on al sides. Griff moved

faster, pushing patrons out of his way. The Latino raised the bottle in his hand, and Griff could see his whole night off turning to shit in two seconds, September 11th spent talking to cops until three in the morning.

But before that bottle even started to swing, Griff had the kid’s wrist in one beefy paw, twisting him to his knees on the concrete floor. His girl’s eyes were panicked under heavy makeup. The crowd around them puled back, rubbernecking.

“
Maricon!
” His thin, tan arm twisted in Griff’s hard grip like a snake.

Griff squeezed hard. “Drop it.”

“It is fine. I am sorry.” The Russian shook his shaved head trying to let the guy off the hook, being polite. What had he done to this asshole?

“I said drop the bottle.”

Clink.
Griff felt the suds spray on his ankle and twisted the little Rican’s arm up between his shoulderblades, forcing him to the concrete. “Enough.”

The wiry bastard squirmed on the floor under Griff’s kilted knee and grumbled something nasty in Spanish.

“Yeah, fuck you too.” Griff tried to signal the guys on the door or the bartender, but the crowd was too dense. Fal weekends were the worst with these

drunks. And this night was insane.

The dark kid vibrated with rage beneath him. “You’re wearing a fucking skirt! Another faggot coming to his rescue.” He struggled, powerless on the floor

and shamed in front of his lady. Love was the worst.

“It’s a kilt, dumbass.” Griff sighed and looked down at the pleats over his meaty thighs. He’d been ready to just break it up and leave these bozos alone. “It’s only a skirt if I wear underwear.”

“He meant nothing by it.” The older man tipped his shaved head to Griff and smiled his thanks, like Mr. Clean goes to Moscow. “A misunderstanding.”

“None of that shit. Not tonight. Yeah?” Griff pointed at the floor and at the embarrassed girlfriend. “Both of you can get right the hel outta this bar.”

She nodded.

Suddenly, the Latino exploded to his feet and shoved his girl toward the exit. She stumbled but was too mortified to stop. As her boyfriend stepped past

them, he clipped the Russian’s shoulder hard, hooked his ankle, and slammed his suit’n’tie ass on the floor. Barely pausing, the kid plowed through the crowd after his girlfriend, jostling people and spiling drinks, leaving a wake of curses and scowls behind him.

Griff didn’t even bother folowing. He hauled the bald dude to his feet and held onto the hand, shaking it. “Griffin Muir.”

“Alek. She did not know me. It was not entirely his fault.” He looked almost apologetic, his blue eyes wide and watery.

“Never is. Ten years ago, I used to fight in bars.”

“Thank you, then. Yes? He did some work for me and tried to hide it from her. She—”

“Wanted to watch a fight. Yeah. I used to be married to a girl like that. He’s got lousy taste in women. Eventualy you lose the taste.”

DEAN MARTIN was done and the firefighter chorus had netted a boatload of groupies.

By the time Griff made it back to his drink, Dante had swiped it, greeting him with fake applause. Black hair, black eyes, pirate smile.

“My fuckin’ hero.” Dante grinned at him, draining the glass.

“My fuckin’ backwash. Taste good?” Griff smacked his head affectionately and claimed a stool.

“Tastes like steak.” Dante licked his lips. Licked them again. Belched like an eight-year-old.

“Gross! Eww.” Apparently the knot of hotties nearby had set their sights on Dante’s tight buns and wavy black mane. What was new? This batch was a little

dressier than the locals. Like colege girls slumming. Manhattan maybe.

For some reason, Dante was ignoring his admirers. He pushed the glossy tangle out of his face. “I’m hungry, G. You wanna get a slice? I need to talk to you

about something.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. No. Not a big deal. I kinda need to ask you something.”

“Sure. I’ve had about al the fun I can….” Griff looked for the rest of the crew to say goodbye. He hadn’t wanted to come out tonight in the first place.

Dinner with Dante sounded way better.

His best friend blinked and stopped talking as a slender hand came from behind and carded into Griff’s bright copper bedhead.

“Your hair that red al over?” A curvy Indian chick had slid over from Dante’s fan club to press against Griff’s hip and look at his legs. “Nice tartan.”

Wearing a kilt in Cobble Hil was always asking for it. Sometimes the “it” in question was a brawl and sometimes a blowjob. With other Scots, it guaranteed