Page 121 of Bae

Trent was driving, and Drew was in the passenger seat with his laptop still open. “Sure did,” he replied, smug.

It seemed like it took forever to get to the other side of Hollywood and to the hotel where Kane was staying. When we finally arrived, I practically jumped out of the rental before it was even fully stopped.

Trent parked around back, not at the main entrance, and I pulled a baseball hat over my head. In fact, all of us wore one, figuring it was better to at least make us not quite as recognizable.

There was a side entrance to the hotel, but you needed a key to get entry. We got lucky, though, because there was a large carpet cleaning van parked right nearby, and the giant hose they used to clean with was in the door, propping it open.

No one saw us walk in and round the corner for the stairwell. Kane was on the third floor. No one said a word as we moved up the stairs.

We didn’t have a plan. We didn’t really need one. We were family, and we would operate as one unit regardless.

The anger was still so intense inside me; it hadn’t dulled at all on the trip over here. If anything, it had only grown worse.

I didn’t hesitate at his door. I knocked on it swiftly as my three brothers stood at my back.

About two seconds ticked by before I heard the door being opened.

I stood with my feet planted on the carpet, fists at my sides, and chin down, using the brim of my hat to conceal my face.

The door swung open. I looked up.

He knew.

He knew the instant our eyes met who I was and why I’d come.

I enjoyed the fear that flashed across his face. I reveled in the fact I was twice his size and he realized it instantly.

I smiled. It was an unfriendly gesture that, once delivered, made him step back.

The little chicken shit tried to slam the door in my face.

He was funny.

My palm slapped against the solid wood and pushed. The resistance of my one arm outdid his full body throwing into it.

He knew it was a lost cause and abandoned it to turn and run.

The motherfucker turned and ran.

What kind of man ran from a beating he fucking deserved?

It didn’t matter anyway. I lunged in the doorway and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. He scrambled to get away, but I gripped harder, and he yelped.

“Please!” he implored. “I—”

In one movement, I spun him around and swung. Before he was even done turning, my fist drove into his face. His head snapped back, and he stumbled. I hit him again. This time blood bloomed over his lower lip.

His eyes widened when he fell onto his ass in the center of the room. He sat there and dabbed at the blood.

“Get up,” I growled. I didn’t hit a man who was down. He could stand up and take it.

He shook his head like he was just going to sit there and be a pansy.

I picked up him, forcing him on his feet, then drove my fist into his midsection. He made a heaving sound and doubled over. As he was bending, I gave him an uppercut to the jaw.

He fell again. All the way down onto his back, blinking up at me from the carpet.

My chest heaved. Not from exertion, but from anger.

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