Page 107 of Price of Angels

“Hey, Holly!” someone called, and she was saved…but only for a moment.

RJ appeared, striding out the front door and heading for them.

Jasmine and the other girls stepped back, giving him space – and her, by default.

“RJ. Hi.” She breathed a deep, shaking sigh of relief as he came to her. “I was trying to explain to them that–”

He didn’t wait for her to finish, but turned, and frowned at the three women over his shoulder. “You three get lost.”

They obeyed without question or protest, Jasmine ducking her head in a fast show of deference before they high heel sashayed their way back into the clubhouse.

Holly was stunned. “You can just order them around like that?” It was the first she’d seen anything like it in the world outside her old farmhouse prison.

RJ shrugged as he faced her again. “They’re Lean Bitches. They come here for one reason, and they know their place, most of the time.” When Holly continued to stare at him, horror-stricken, he said, “They’re groupies.”

She couldn’t suppress a shudder. “How terrible for them.”

He laughed. “They don’t think so.” He shifted closer, pushing into her bubble of personal space. “But who wants to talk about them, huh? I can’t believe you came. I’m glad you did” – another half-step closer – “but I’m surprised.”

Holly didn’t like his nearness. Or the way he was smiling at her. He seemed harmless enough…but then so had Dewey. Any man with any interest in her was anything but harmless. Michal was actively harmful– to other people – and that was the rare comfort of him.

She swallowed against her nerves. “I’m here with Michael.”

RJ pretended to take a look at their surroundings. “Really? I don’t see him.” He turned a kind, sympathetic look down to her; sad for her, understanding, pitying. “Did you mean that you’re trying to find him? Ah, doll, he…how can I say this? He doesn’t bring people to parties. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but you’re wasting your time with him.”

Holly kicked up her chin. “He broughtmetothisparty. We came on his bike.”

It had been terrifying and thrilling, the wind funneling around her, his lean waist solid and comforting in the small circle of her arms.

RJ laughed. “That’s a real cute story.” He dropped an arm across her shoulders. “Come on inside. We can have a drink.” His eyes caught the Christmas lights, gleaming with obvious excitement.

He tried to tow her forward, and every particle of Holly’s being rejected the weight of his arm across her shoulders. The sirens went off in her head: Danger, danger, danger. The assumed intimacy of a man, any man who wasn’t Michael, was like a razorblade down all her tender nerve endings. Her pulse became high and light in her throat. Her lungs tightened until it was painful to breathe.

“I-I-I can’t…” She stammered.

“Sure you can.” RJ steered her one step, and then two, trying to urge her back into that awful crowd inside the clubhouse. “Just one little drink. And you and me can get to know each oth–”

His words dissolved into a grunt as a fist impacted the side of his face.

Holly ducked away as he went staggering back, ripping his arm from around her shoulders. RJ caught himself against the support pole, struggling to regain his bearings. But his attacker was on him again, and he wasn’t going to give him a fighting chance.

Michael.

His fury was a visible whipcord of energy, snapping through him, tightening his face into the most blank, expressionless mask. Holly could see the tension in him, in his arms and torso, even through his clothes, the way each stride was longer than the one before it.

Without slowing, he closed the gap and he struck RJ again. This was no brotherly boxing match, nor a warning; not even a point to be made. Before RJ had a chance to collect himself, Michael’s punch caught him in the face, in the delicate bone structure to the side of his nose, with all of Michael’s weight behind it.

Dogs were spilling out of the clubhouse. “Jesus, he’s trying to kill him!” someone said.

RJ was on the ground, and if he was still conscious, it wasn’t by much.

Michael was closing in for a third assault when Mercy and another tall Dog, this one blonde, reached him.

Mercy caught Michael from behind with both arms and dragged him back. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said. “You plan on him being able to use his jaw for the next six weeks? Or should I let you finish breaking it?”

Michael had no choice but to shuffle backward as the big Cajun hauled him off his quarry, but he didn’t answer.

The blonde was crouched beside RJ, lightly touching his face; Holly saw his finger lift up each eyelid, and check for pupil reaction. “He’s out,” he announced, and gathered the smaller man to his chest before he stood, lifting him up in his arms.

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