Page 4 of Wicked Ends
“A cut is like a jacket, right?” I wondered. I watched TV. I knew the basics. “Are you a biker, then?”
“Not voluntarily. I’m just heir to the shitty throne,” he said and waved a hand carelessly at the bar.
I didn’t have time to dig into that statement because all hell broke loose.
Someone banged into my back, and my hand holding my glass connected hard with my mouth, my teeth taking most of the impact.
I spun around to see a huge guy fall to the floor groaning, beside my barstool. I jumped up right before the thing fell over and stepped around his legs to get clear.
Another guy stood over him, a pool cue in hand and murder in his eyes.
“You stay the fuck away from Stella, got it?” the attacker shouted.
The music cut off, and all eyes in the bar were fixed on the fight. The guy on the floor struggled to his feet. I saw it then. His cut. A short leather vest with a patch sewn on.
Harbor Hounds MC.
Once the fallen guy was up, he lumbered back toward his opponent.
“Don’t tell me what to do! You can’t stop us.”
They were about to clash again, right beside me. I was trapped between the bar and the fallen stools, and there was no escape. A tattooed hand slapped the counter beside me, and then someone was vaulting over the bar top with ease.
One of the guys picked up a glass and hurled it. The other guy stepped to the side, and the glass flew toward me instead. I flinched, swiveling my body to protect my face from the hit, but it didn’t come.
Turning to see what happened, I found Marcus, hand closed around the glass, stopped midair, inches from me. He held it in such a strong grip the glass had cracked, and red ran down his arm. He‘d caught it. Plucked it out of the air. It was astounding. His face was stony as he dropped the broken shards to the floor and shook out his hand. Blood splattered against the bar. He turned then and reached over the bar and snatched up an object.A baseball bat?No, not a baseball bat. That would have been a lot more normal.
Marcus strode toward the pair of fighting bikers, hockey stick in hand. The Clutch kept a hockey stick behind the bar for safety? Hade Harbor reallywasa hockey town.
He grabbed one guy and tossed him back, and then a second later, with lightning-fast reflexes, he nudged the tip of the stick into the attacker’s chest, stopping him dead.
“You threw the glass?” His voice was dangerously low.
The guy swallowed hard. “I wasn’t aiming for anyone other than Bill.”
“But you didn’t hit Bill, did you?” Marcus continued.
He took a step back and swung the hockey stick in a hard arc, smacking the guy’s face with the end of it. The meaty thwack was sickening. The guy fell to the floor. You could cut the silence with a knife.
“Now, you two take it outside and off Bailey property if you want to kill each other.”
The guy with the busted jaw jabbed a finger at the guy who’d fallen into my stool. “He fucked Stella.”
“Not my problem. Get off Bailey property and act like a fucking Hound. Fight it out fair or forget it.” Marcus’ voice rang with dominance. He flicked his stick up and pressed it into the first guy’s chin, pinning him in place.
The guy glared at him, then nodded. “Fine. We’ll take it outside.”
“And off the property. If I come out there and you’re fighting in the lot, someone’s getting their head knocked off, got it?”
There was an air of authority around Marcus that no one dared to argue with. What had he said before? He was heir to all this? Was the bar his family business?
The two men moved outside. The jukebox started back up, and slowly, conversation resumed.
Marcus watched them go, blood dripping freely from his hand onto the floor. My heart was still racing, hard, and it was difficult to catch my breath. Sure, he’d been protecting his family business, but that midair catch had been hot. Hot as hell.
No one had ever been protective of me. No one.
I went to his side, and he turned toward me.
