Page 33 of The Club

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mr. Gym Muscles demands.

Who the hell knows?

I let my head thump back against the wall as blood runs down my chin.

I know where they’re going with this. Of course I fucking know.

“Let’s teach him a lesson,” someone grumbles.

“Arrogant prick,” mutters someone else.

I smile. “At least I’m not alittleprick—like you.”

There’s a lot of uncreative name calling, then they start hitting me again. It’s a lot. It hurts, which brings some fight back into me. That’s the beauty of intense moments. It’s like playing music. You stop thinking.

I throat punch Mr. Gym Muscles. He staggers back, choking. His friends take it personally.

When I get smashed into the wall again, it’s face first this time. They pin me. They tear chaotically at the button and zipper of my jeans—

There’s a nasty, deep-sounding thud.

One of the assholes thumps against the wall beside me and slides down.

Shouting, the others spin around. I’m slower about it, but I do get turned before sliding down the wall like the limp, maybe dead, guy beside me.

My ass hits the ground and I take in the partially lit scene.

My savior—it’s Dominic, of course—tears through the pathetic trio that remains. He’s so fast for such a big guy. He ducks one punch and lands his fist in another gut. Someone gets Dominic’s elbow to the face. Someone else gets kicked in the balls. That fucker goes down.

It doesn’t take long before they’re all down, leaving Dominic standing solo in the middle of the alley.

He’s breathing hard, but I think it’s mostly because he’s pissed. He stalks my way. He crouches in front of me. His face is shadowed, hiding his expression, and he doesn’t speak. All the same, I can feel every ounce of his intensity as he raises a gun—and brings the butt down on my head.

TWELVE

Dominic

I glance in my rearview mirror, looking past Rafael’s unconscious form in the backseat to the headlights behind me. Heading out of the city, Rocco can no longer hide that he’s tailing me. I told him to fuck off the other day when I caught him. All he did was get sneakier. Like me, I guess. For four days, I never let Rafael spot me.

From a distance, I watched him come apart. I fucking reveled in it. It soothed me.

He covered it well. His clothes were impeccable, his hair perfect. Everyone stared at him like they always do when he was at the gym, at the steakhouse, at his club. I never entered Lush, but I saw him walk in more than once.

I’m sure most people saw only the sexy, confident man they’re used to. I saw all his tricks for hiding shaky hands.

Rafael is moody even at his best. I would know. I’ve been watching him for months. In truth, I was watching him long before that, though only sporadically. Only when I could get away with it.

The thing about his moodiness is that people around him are used to him being at turns charming or sharp or silent. He got silent over the last couple days. Anyone could have seen that. But I saw how he got dangerous.

I didn’t plan to interfere with him tonight. I wasn’t ready to deal with him. But when I realized what he was doing, I couldn’t hold back.

No one gets to hurt Rafael but me, not even in the fake-as-fuck fighting ring. My hands nearly strangled the chrome railingwhen that prancy prick hit Rafael. Twice in the gut, once in the face.

Why the hell did Rafael let that happen? I watched him slice a man to death a few days ago, then I had to work hard to put him down even when he was so high he could barely stand up. Tonight, he wasn’t protecting himself.

As if that wasn’t clear enough in the ring, he proved it beyond any doubt in the alley.

The steering wheel creaks in my twisting grip. I check the rearview mirror again, this time ignoring the irritating headlights behind me to glare at my unconscious captive.

---