Page 28 of Wife Number One

It was all I could do to find Toro in the crowd, going head-to-head with a guy about my age, and Carli huddled in a corner with her nose bleeding, a phone pressed to her ear.

I had no idea if she was calling the cops or for backup of a different kind. Like in the form of her muscle-head boyfriend and his buddies.

When one of the hockey bros yanked me off his friend and sent his fist straight into my mouth, I considered the fact I probably could have used the backup in either form. Toro was trying his best, but we were well outnumbered.

Two guys got a hold of me, a third sending a quick round of punches into my face and stomach as I fought against my restraints. Pain erupted in each place the man’s fist connected, but I was too wired with adrenaline to worry about it.

It was hardly the first time I’d been attacked.

From the other side of the room, the Slayers emerged from their table. I barely got a look at them from the corner of my swelling eye. They were a sea of black leather and denim, swarming across the restaurant while families and teenagers fled out into the parking lot to avoid the brawl.

I groaned when a heavy boot connected with my midsection, the big guy in the hockey jersey who had started this whole thing now back on his feet and out for my blood. His boot came again, and I coughed painfully.

The Slayers joined the fight like the lethal weapon I knew them to be. My head hung, pain slowly breaking through the adrenaline and coursing through my body. My ears rang, the diner around me turning into one painful squeal of noise, and I wondered if my eardrum had ruptured.

That pissed me off.

“You fucking pansies, holding a guy down while you beat the shit out of him,” an older guy with a Slayers’ vest fitted across his broad chest muttered.

The man was huge, and I thought I vaguely recognized him, but it was hard to tell with my eyes full of sweat. Or was that blood?

My eyesight was fuzzy around the edges, and I doubted I was going to be conscious for much longer.

Simon had disappeared, and aside from Toro who I’d also lost track of, it was me against a pack. I hated the Slayers but I needed someone on my fucking side here.

“Don’t you fucking know who we are?” a deep, male voice roared above the din.

Suddenly, the two guys holding me down let go of me. Footsteps crunched over the smashed plates and what was left of the food Toro and I had so painstakingly prepared.

I rolled over onto my stomach, coughing, and pressed up on my hands, ignoring the sting of pain as broken glass speared through my palms.

Fuck this day.

I wiped at my eyes and tried to focus on what needed to be done, but the Slayers joining the fight had evened the score, and the drunken idiots had clearly decided it was no longer worth their while. They took one look at the patches on their jackets and the emblems on their backs and took off running into the night.

Smart.

But I refused to do the same.

Someone slapped me on the back. “Hey, you all right? You need a hand?”

With effort, I glanced up at the man offering his help.

Ah, fuck.

Familiar green eyes stared back at me.

Familiar because five years ago this fucking prick had met with a bullet from my gun.

Hawk realized at the same second I did, and in the one that followed, I was staring down the muzzle of his gun.

Gone was any sympathy his eyes might have held before he’d recognized me. And in them, anger and hate burned hotter than any fire I’d ever seen.

I let out a slow, bitter laugh, wishing again that I hadn’t gotten out of bed today. “Too late to change your mind and let that guy kill me. You already helped me.”

Hawk’s upper lip curled, taking him from stupidly handsome to fucking mean in an instant. “Bullshit.” He cocked his head to one side and pushed the muzzle against my forehead. “I can change my mind any fucking time I want.” His finger hovered over the trigger.

He’d do it, too. I had no doubt in my mind.

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