Now, the atmosphere in the pub has completely changed. People keep banging into the table, spilling our drinks. I’ve seen Lachlan curl and uncurl his fists a few times, that wild, piercing look coming into his eyes, his face going red.

But Thierry and John are too drunk to notice or care, singing along to some screeching tune.

I lean into Lachlan and still have to shout to be heard. “Want to go and sit somewhere else? It’s so loud here and people keep bumping into us.”

I can’t hear what he says in return, it sounds more like a grumble.

I don’t know. I’m getting a weird feeling. He’s gone from relaxed as he was at the start of the night to tense and edgy. I don’t want to blame it on four Scotch ales but I don’t see what else it can be. I mean, I know he doesn’t like to be around people in particular, especially when there’s a bunch of them acting like idiots, so adding alcohol to the mix probably isn’t the best idea. If we could just go back home, we could settle down on the couch and watch TV or just find each other in the sheets of our bed.

Finally some girl with mangy blonde hair, orange skin and tits pushed up to her chin totters on over in her heels and drapes herself over Lachlan.

“You’re Lachlan McGregor!” she yells at him in a twangy English accent, her heavy, false eyelashes making it hard for her to keep her eyes open. “I have seen pictures of your cock.”

My eyes widen, my skin immediately growing hot. Did she just say what I think she said?

She looks at me briefly, enough to give me the up and down glare, then looks over at Thierry. “I’ve seen your cock too. Both very impressive. My name is Polly, by the way. You want to buy me a drink?”

I’m really waiting for someone to fill me in on this. I’m staring at Lachlan, open-mouthed, but he’s not looking at me. To be fair, he hasn’t even glanced her way either. He’s just staring at his half-drunk beer like he wants to smash the glass over someone’s head.

It’s John who explains to me. “They both did a nude rugby calendar a few years ago,” he says loudly. “I, of course, didn’t get the call. I think it’s because red pubes don’t photograph very well, even in black and white.”

So the nude rugby calendar really is a thing. When Neil, even Amara brought it up, I thought it was a joke. I guess not.

And with that, I calm down a little bit. If she’s seen his dick via a calendar then probably everyone has seen his dick and there’s not much I can do about that except be proud that the dick belongs to me.

And even though I don’t like this bitch touching my man, I’m not going to say or do anything. Don’t get me wrong, back in San Francisco I have no problems getting in someone’s face. I remember once having to step in when some chick was threatening to beat up Stephanie over some guy, I don’t even remember who. I had to get all crazy Asian chick in her face and luckily it didn’t come to anything more than that. But I have a feeling Scottish, or English chicks as this girl is, aren’t to be fucked with. I keep my mouth closed and ignore it.

Until it becomes impossible to ignore.

Because now the tawdry slut is standing behind Lachlan and running both her hands down his arms and whispering something in his ear.

“Um, excuse me, Polly was it?” I say, with my finger raised in the air. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

She gives me a glare with one closed eye. She looks like a drunken pirate hooker.

“Mind your own business,” she says, slurring.

I’m staring at Lachlan now, wondering why he’s not moving, not reacting. I don’t even know if he knows what’s going on at all, it’s like he’s in some sort of trance, which doesn’t help me at all.

Fine. I can take care of myself. I lean in closer and put my hand on her arm. It’s sticky and cold. “Polly, I’m not sure if you realize this but this man is my boyfriend which means he is my business. Now if you kindly remove your arms, there are plenty of available men in this bar that I’m sure would love a night with the likes of you.”

She sneers at me. “Oh fuck off, you slag.”

My head jerks back. I don’t even know what “slag” is but I’m guessing it isn’t good. I’m about to look to John and Thierry for some sort of support, since Lachlan has gone catatonic, when suddenly there’s a looming shadow over our table.

“What the fuck is going on here, huh?” A voice booms and I look up to see a big bruiser of a dude with a bald head and beady eyes standing behind the slaggy chick. He’s staring at the girl and the way she’s on Lachlan, like he’s got laser beams for eyes and is trying to burn a hole through both of them.

“Hey!” the guy yells, grabbing the girl by the arm and throwing her off of Lachlan. “What the fuck you doing with my girl, you cunt?”

I wince. Oh no. Oh no.

Wrong thing to say buddy.

I’m frozen in my seat, watching Lachlan closely, my breath in my throat. I can feel Thierry and John do the same thing. In fact, the whole bar seems to quiet, though it could just be my imagination. It’s as if everything stills, holding its breath.

Lachlan doesn’t turn around, just cocks his head as if finally listening. He has that mad dog stare going on, a volcano about to erupt. His shoulders and neck tense, like someone has wound him up as far as he will go and he’s about to spring.

“What?” Lachlan says, voice so stiff, so low, I can barely hear him.

“Are you fucking deaf?” the guy says, leaning closer so his face is practically shouting in Lachlan’s ear. “I said stay the fuck away from my girl, faggot.”

Lachlan swallows slowly. I watch his fists curl so tight his skin grows white. His eyes sharpen, pupils growing tiny, mean, hard as hell. I want nothing more than to grab him, lead him out of here. I should have done that a long time ago.

And the guy doesn’t back off. The guy might have muscles but he’s a fucking idiot. Instead he smiles at Lachlan, showing misshapen teeth. “You rugby players think you’re the cock of the walk, don’t you. Like your shit don’t stink. Like you can do anything you fucking want. Well you can’t. I know all about you, you pathetic little fuck. You want it all and you don’t deserve any of it, not like the rest of us.” He looks over Lachlan’s head at me and there’s so much disgust in his eyes it nearly makes me sick. “Why don’t you go take care of your chink girlfriend and leave mine alone.”

I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. It takes me a moment to register that he just called me a fucking chink, one of the oldest, most-outdated racist terms in the book. I can’t even think, or breathe or react other than to stare dumbly at him, like I’m not even sure who I am for a moment. But holy hell does that make me feel like garbage.

Lachlan’s reaction, unlike mine though, is immediate.

Lachlan explodes up from the table and with a terrifying roar that silences the whole pub, he whirls around and punches the guy square in the face. It’s hard enough that blood flies out of his mouth, hard enough for the sound of bone crunching to settle somewhere inside me.

The man flies back but doesn’t fall. He grabs his face, still smiling somehow though I swear a tooth falls out of his mouth and in his eyes he’s taunting Lachlan.

There is no time for that. Lachlan storms toward him, fists out, shoulders raised, his eyes as crazed as I’ve ever seen them. He’s like a whole new person and if the guy had any brains at all he would get the fuck out of here because I don’t think Lachlan will be stopped.

And he doesn’t. The guy tries to put in a punch and it catches Lachlan in the jaw, but he didn’t even try to duck or move, he just takes the hit and keeps coming like nothing happened. And when he comes again, he’s coming with both fists and the guy goes flying back through chairs and onto someone’s table.

Lachlan pins him down and punches him in the nose.