Ms. Got Rocks by Jacqueline Colt

yelling and noise of the crowd she heard the tiniest sound bite of an angry Irish accent.
    As Rocky was moving backward away from the man she now recognized, she thought, “Why is he here?”
    This was not the time to think it through, Rocky was the apparent target of the man with the stick. She could see the stick move overhead and she swung her camera out of the way, but she exposed her head by doing that.
    One of the cameras was still running on automatic. Rocky hoped that she got the shot. She pulled Margie’s little digital camera from her pocket and held it in her other hand, she clicked through the memory chips on the red faced, blue eyed large man as he lifted the nightstick.
    The man with the sleek black hair was running toward the angry red faced man and Rocky.
    “Hey man, leave that one alone. Hey, stop, don’t do that.” Callaghan roared as he pushed his way toward Rocky.
    “Stop right now, you asshole. That one is a press photographer and she is my woman. You lay a finger on her, I’ll kill ya man.” Callaghan was near the angry enforcer and had the baton back and up poised for a swing at the man directly in front of Rocky.
    The man threatening her turned his whole body toward the tall man running toward them.
    Rocky, who was still standing like a load of rocks watched as the most handsome man she had ever seen and man who tried to jump her claim was wedging himself in front of her. She felt his spread hand across her breasts, pushing her with such force away from his back that he had knocked her breathless and stumbling to the pavement.
    Rocky staggered crablike back, then regaining her balance sitting on her butt,she clicked off two more shots on the digital. She only stopped shooting because the camera was making peeping sounds, as she stood behind Callaghan.
    “Rochelle, get your arse outta here. Now. Go.” Callaghan was shouting at her with a thick Irish accent.
    He offered her one hand to get off the ground and the other one remained on the chest of the big angry man. It flashed through Rocky’s mind that Callaghan looked like a referee in a boxing match.
    “Okay, Pal, any friend of yours is a friend of mine,” the large red faced man said, raising his hands in submission while backing away from Callaghan. He turned around and ran to the nearest knot of women and again raised his nightstick.
    “Bloody Neanderthal,” Callaghan shouted after the man. Callaghan’s deep blue eyes were snapping with irritated, annoyed energy.
    “What are you doing here?” Rocky shouted at her rescuer.
    Rocky was totally confused at the incongruity of the hunk of an Irish claim jumper from a couple of days ago, appearing in a parking lot of a pharmaceutical company in Sacramento California on the very day of a labor action.
    “Get out of here now, Got Rocks. It is over for you, you have your bloody photographs. Go,” Callaghan shouted at her. She could barely hear him over the crowd noise. His icy eyes were snapping as he threw his sleek hair away from them.
    “Dammit, woman, do you never do as you should? Go. This isn’t done here, and you don’t need any more than what you have,” he implored.
    Callaghan had turned his back on the men and was squared off in front of Rocky. He threw his arm around her waist and turned her to face the street. He hustled her across the parking lot through the throng of confused frightened women.
    “Where is your car?” Callaghan demanded.
    “What are you doing here?” Rocky demanded in return.
    “It is just a job, darlin’. Where is your car?” Callaghan answered and began to cover her like honey with the Irish accent.
    “You are a strikebreaker, full time as a job? You make money beating up innocent people? Except for the times you steal people’s claims?” Rocky was standing at the edge of the street, but she had turned and was looking Callaghan straight in the eye.
    “No, I don’t. This was a day labor job, to keep the strikers away from the gate. Nothing more