Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

He growls, “You have two seconds to get off that porch
before you won’t be able to walk off under your own power.”
Chris lifts his chin and sticks out his chest. “I don’t know
who the hell you are, but I’m a—”
“Dead man, if you don’t fuck off. Right. Now.”
Chris glances at me for help, but he’s on my shit list at the
moment. When I stare at him, shaking my head, he looks back
at Kage.
He takes a nice, long, look, taking in the powerful
shoulders, the clenched fists, the murderous scowl. Then he
does the sensible thing.
He picks up his hat from where he dropped it on the
ground, jams it back onto his head, says to me, “I’ll call you
later,” and runs away.
I fold the envelope into thirds and slip it and the key into
my back pocket.
Watching Chris scurry off toward his sheriff’s car, parked
at the curb, I say drily, “You have a very interesting effect on
people, neighbor. Even the ones carrying a gun.”
He prowls closer, his jaw as hard as his eyes. “He’s lucky I
didn’t rip off his head. You sure you’re okay?”
I smile. “And you claim not to be a knight in shining
armor.”
“Furthest thing from it,” he says, his voice low. “But a no’s
a no.”
“He’s harmless.”
“Every man’s dangerous. Even the harmless ones.”
“Do you have such a low opinion of your own gender?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It’s the testosterone. Nature never
made a more deadly drug.”
Or a sexier one. All the male pheromones he’s exuding are
making me dizzy. I look away, flustered.