Page 29 of Everest

I tear my eyes from hers and see Promise waving from across the parking lot, where the rest of the women are gathered under the shade of a couple of tents, all laughing and sipping on something cold.

I look down at London. She blinks, the spell broken, and steps back, slipping from my grasp and putting distance between us and what almost happened. Without speaking, she turns, walks away and doesn’t looking back.

My jaw is tight, with every muscle in my body wound like a goddamn spring as I watch her go.

Kiwi walks up with a tray full of baked goods and a gigantic grin. “She’s got you by the balls, mate.”

I grunt and turn my attention back to London, tracking her as she joins the women.

“Here, have a cookie, brother. Sometimes, it helps to eat your feelings.” He chuckles and nudges the tray at me. “Don’t worry, big guy, we’ve all been there.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I don’t say anything and snatch a motherfucking cookie off the tray. Remaining silent, my gaze still on London, I wonder what I’d have done if Promise hadn’t interrupted, and contemplate what the hell I’m supposed to do about the woman taking up too much space in my head.

Later that night, we all hang out at Twisted Throttle, unwinding from a long-ass day. My brothers and their women have all claimed their usual spaces. The bar is alive with chaos, music, and muffled conversation. It’s loud, rowdy, and familiar.

It’s a good night.

We earned it.

With a beer in one hand, I stake out my usual spot near the entrance, leaning against the wall as laughter swells and the music intensifies. I scan the room through the haze of smoke and the scent of spilled beer. My senses are heightened, and I watch for anything amiss because I can’t shake this undercurrent of tension. It feels like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Needing a breather, I step outside, light a cigarette, and exhale the smoke into the thick New Orleans night. As always, Bourbon Street is alive. I watch a group of musicians pack up and drag their battered instruments down the sidewalk.

Upon hearing the clicking of heels, I glance to my left, spotting a woman pulling away from some tatted frat boy and heading in my direction. She has long legs, painted lips, and is wearing a dress that belongs in a backroom.

“You sure are a hard man to miss.” Her eyes run the length of my body like she’s already undressing me.

I take another drag, staring straight ahead. “Ain’t lookin’ for company.”

She smirks, stepping closer, invading my space. “Maybe not, but you're getting it anyway.” Her hand grazes my arm when a voice cuts through the street noise like a blade.

“Oh, sweetie,” London calls from behind, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “He’s not into women who smell like cheap perfume and desperation.”

The woman looks around me at London, her arms crossed, locked and loaded with attitude. She’s wearing confidence like a second skin and the kind of smile that promises trouble.

“Who the hell are you?” the woman spits.

London tilts her head. “Oh, I’m just the woman who can spot a thirsty trainwreck from a mile away. You must be exhausted chasing attention in those heels all night.”

The woman snorts. “Jealousy looks ugly on you, sweetheart.”

London doesn’t blink. “Not as ugly as those crusty feet and ratchet dress.”

I damn near choke on my breath. The way London slices with that mouth of hers.Jesus. I almost feel bad for the woman. I don’t say a word. I keep my expression neutral and let London do what she does best by setting a fire and walking away without blinking.

The guy the woman left behind finally notices she is not at his side. “Hey.” He angrily strides over and jabs his finger into my chest. “You trying to take my girl, bro?”

I flick my cigarette away and sigh. I donothave time for this shit. I stare at the dumbass.

He steps closer. “You think you’re better than me?”

“Absolutely,” I mutter.

He swings.

Or tries to.

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