Page 4 of Savage Hero

My insides are quivering like someone slapped a big ole heap of Jell-O.

I can barely think straight with his gorgeous—but fucking deadly—eyes on me, but somehow in the haze that used to be solid thoughts and carefully calculated plans, I wrench out the only thing that makes sense.

Me. Get. Out. Now.

I shake my head, frown, and head for the restroom door as fast as I can, wiping my hands on my ass. It’s an instinctive gesture, and I don’t realize I’m doing it until it’s too late.

But if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

The toilet flushes as I push through the swinging door and I leave without a backward glance.

I can feel him looking at the back of my head. Could feel him checking out my ass.

Which means he knows I’m not a guy. And he’d be highly, highly suspicious if someone pretending to be a guy was anywhere near Bryan…right?

I’m sweating.

I head for the kitchen area as quick as I can. I can draw La Buena Papa’s floorplans with my eyes closed. No one knows this, but I’ve been in this restaurant five times in the last week—afterclosing time. Their security system is dismal, but what’s there to steal in a place like this if they take the money with them after they cash up each night? I don’t think anyone’s that desperate for cheese.

If you carry on with the passage where the restroom doors are, you end up at the back of the restaurant. It was my escape route after I’d done the deed.

But Bryan’s still alive. Throat Tattoomademe.

Fuck!

My hands curl into fists. Anger, humiliation, frustration well up inside me. My steps slow until I’m frozen in the middle of a passage so narrow, I can stretch out my arms and touch both sides.

I have to do this. I have to turn around and fucking end Bryan Domingo.

Now.

But before I can move, I hear someone’s voice.

Not his. God, if it had been Throat Tattoo, I’m not sure if I would have melted into the floor like ice cream on a hot summer’s day or fled out the back door like a rabbit with a wolf on her tail.

No, it’s someone else. They’re talking on their cell phone somewhere ahead. Quiet. Conspiratorial.

This far away from the main restaurant, the music fades into the background. I creep closer, my arm hairs standing to attention. Thankfully, the guy is speaking English. I only know a handful of Spanish phrases.

“…is here. Yes. Of course I’m sure. Yes, I checked the fucking picture.” The young man—sounds like a kid—laughs quietly. “Think I wouldn’t know Caesar fucking Domingo when I saw him? No. Just him. Yeah, just the usual. No, no cops. Okay. Yeah, okay, just let me get the fuck out first.”

There’s a corner up ahead. Beyond it, a storeroom and big double doors that open into the small backyard of the restaurant. A dumpster. Some chain-link fence.

I hear soft-soled shoes hitting the ground, the double doors opening. The soft whoosh as their hydraulics force them closed.

And, just before they close, the unmistakable growl of a muscle car’s engine. It’s going too fast, and it’s skidding. Skidding down the dirt road that leads to this restaurant alone.

Sometimes things just fall into place. It’s happened enough times in my life that I know it’s some kind of weird talent I have to know when shit’s about to go down.

Besides being really handy with a gun, and turning out to be a decent enough boxer that I can give most guys a run for their money inside the ring, of course.

I’m about to be involved in a drive-by shooting.

La Buena Papa is long and rectangular. The front is wall-to-ceiling glass, I guess because it’s built on a bit of a hill and has a nice view.

There’s a road outside that goes right past the front.

Anyone leaning out of the window of a fast car who happens to be holding a machine gun can mow down pretty much everyone inside the restaurant in a matter of seconds.

---