With Henry’s grip full of Darryl’s worn flannel shirt, he punches him in the stomach. Darryl’s body sandwiches in half from the impact. The air whooshes from his lungs as Darryl blindly reaches for his beer bottle on the counter. Henry stands above him, assuming he’s made his point. The movement happens so fast, I’m not even sure what I’m witnessing. “Henry!” I yell in warning. The asshole is too quick. He slams the bottle against Henry’s head. The thud makes my stomach roll, but Buchanan recovers quickly, ramming his fist into the stranger’s nose, cocking his arm back for another hit when
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I can’t get enough of him at this point!
