Hayden's POV:

I practically lived here, which I suppose isn't really something I should be proud of now that I look around me. There were words and shapes carved roughly into the tops of the scrubbed wooden tables and all along the curvature of the bar top; among them my own name was repeated several times, with thanks to the tip of my switchblade. It was always a riot in the Strawberry Duck, and I think that was why I felt so at home there.

One thing I could always count on was a good, clean fight. I admit it, I have a pretty sharp tongue and manage to rile up the most patient of men if I have a mind to, and nothing puts me in a right good mood like making some lairy bloke bleed. My missus gets proper stressed about me fighting so much, but I'm a fighter; its what I know and its how I live and she knows that. I think she kind of likes it, too.

Tonight, the pub was packed with the usual riffraff. Liverpool was in a match against Manchester United and whoever wasn't crowded about the tellie getting riled up over bad calls was sharking on the snooker tables. I can't see a snooker cue without grinning, because everytime I try to tell my American bird about snooker, she calls cues sticks. I've given up correcting her on some things, though, and I'll never admit to her that I think its right cute when she does things like that. Mostly because I don't say 'cute'.

I knew most of the people well good, but there would always be that handful of newcomers boozing it up at the bar and picking up girls for a good time. That wasn't me, and it hadn't been for a long time now. My mates still took the piss out of me, but they were finally figuring out that I wasn't changing my mind. I'd wait a thousand years for that girl and never think of anyone else, and their taking a piss wouldn't make me do anything to lose her.

"Oi, did you see that, mate?" Craig was out of his seat, voice raised above the racket and his finger wagging at the screen. "Gerrard just bloody made a hect goal, mate! That was WELL good, that was!"

Of course, I'd seen it. I was on my feet, too, and you better believe I was quick to address that son of a bitch to my right, a Man U fan, who'd been mouthing off the whole match. I could be a right mouthy bastard sometimes, and I rarely let some bloke get away with big-headedness around me. No sir.

"Shut yer gaf, you ruddy wanker." He growled at me, and judging by the glassy hue of his eyes, he was three sheets to the wind already. Me and my mates had a laugh at him as he stumbled off of his stool in an attempt to stand up to me. I had him by a good four or five inches, easy, and he had to look up to glare at me. He thought he was a hard man, but I wasn't intimidated. Nothing scared me. I knew when I was beat, and now wasn't it.

"Whatchu gonna do 'bout it, y'mug?" I challenged, and yeah I was hoping he'd have a go at me. When your girl was in a different country, you had to get your fixes in different ways. Fighting was my adrenaline rush. God, I loved it.

And then he was tossing his drink all over me, the cider in his mug splashing into my face and dripping down onto my blue button-up shirt. Before the liquid even seeped into my skin, I reacted and the pub became more alive than ever as his mates and mine jumped into the rumble. It was a rare thing that anyone could get a punch in on me and before the man could think to swing, I had punched him straight in the side of his head. He stumbled back into the bar, gripped it and tried to stabilize but I hit him again, this time in the ribs. Not once, but twice and then three times when he tried to swipe at me.

I don't know who was hitting who around me, but the minute my man was down, I swung around to rescue my brother from one of the other bloke's mates. Lewis was never much of a fighter and even though he could be a right pain in the arse, he was my brother and I'd die before I left him to fend for himself against a bloke twice his size.

"Hayden, fuck off outta here!" Kevin, the owner of the pub, was a good mate of mine but sometimes he got a bit stressed when I fought in his place. He always made me come and fix all the shit I'd broken afterwards, but I didn't mind. A mate was a mate in London. Even so, my temper was good and hot, no one was exempt. Well, almost no one.

"What the fuck you on about?" I shouted above the riot, "He started it, why do I have to go?"

"Mostly because he can't walk!" Kevin pointed out, thrusting a thumb at the invalid. He was short and old enough to be my dad, but Kevin was a hard man. You had to respect him because he demanded it, and he knew all the people you wanted to avoid pissing off. So, I called him a bunch of things I knew he wasn't because I was drunk and fuming, the blood in my veins still hot.

"Alright, you lot, fuck off outta here! I'm callin' the cops!" I heard Kevin shout at my mates and the spicks we were fighting as I stomped toward the door. If I didn't think they'd disentangle at that threat, I would have stayed and made sure my brother got away unscathed. Kevin would take care of him, though.

I kicked the door open, which pissed Kevin off on a normal day because it was already shot to sh-t from abuse, and stumbled out. I was steady enough, though, once the cold air hit me and I was reminded of my damp shirt and chest. My vision blurred for a split second, making me blink at the small mound of human on the pavement right outside the pub door.

"Fuck."

My heart both stopped beating altogether and started racing in a matter of two seconds, my blood going from boiling to ice cold so fast it made me dizzy. If I'd been buzzed before, I was zapped plumb sober by the sight of her, laying there in her own blood and looking too weak to mumble. I'd had nightmares about seeing her this way, but never once believed that I would have to. I had always known that I would protect her when I went there, so that he couldn't touch her anymore.

But I wasn't there. She was here, and I just couldn't wrap my mind around that right now. All I could do was kneel down and pull her as gently as I could into my own arms before lifting to my feet with a slight strain in my muscles. She was dead weight, but I was too numb to register whether she was heavy or not. All I knew was that I was holding my baby for the first time and she wasn't even conscious.

"I got you, duck, you're alright now." I muttered, but I knew she couldn't hear me. It didn't matter. I shrugged so that her head bumped lightly against my shoulder and then started to walk. You just don't drive in London if you don't need to, and I had a bit of a walk ahead of me to reach home. It was cold, and I could feel my trousers sliding a bit. She always told me to wear a belt but this was the only time I even considered it.

By the time I reached my flat on the south side, she was trembling in my hold and my fingers were numb as I tried to keep a grip on her. I kept my eyes straight ahead of me, not wanting to look at where the blood was coming from just yet. All I could think of the entire walk home was that she smelled so sweet, and that all I wanted to do was kiss her. God, I had wanted to kiss that girl for so long.

"Mike!"

I shouted as I kicked the door, because obviously I couldn't reach the keys in my trouser pocket. All I got in response was, well, nothing. I was aggitated, because I needed to take care of my bird and my best mate was missing in action, leaving us out in the cold like a right wanker.

"MIKE, MATE! OPEN THE DOOR, YA LOUSY FUCK!"

This time I could hear movement and, finally, the lock on the door slid and he flung it open with an awful vengence, glaring ice daggers at me for disturbing him.

"S'matter, you fuckin' prick, ain't you got a key?" He shouted, but before he was even done with his sentence, his eyes fell to my armful and he was moving aside to let me in.