Page 36 of Sinful
But before we can move, Titans jersey stumbles toward the bar.
Directly toward me.
"Hey, blondie." His breath reeks of whiskey and bad decisions. "You look familiar. Do I know you?"
"No." I don't look at him, hoping he'll take the hint and fuck off.
He doesn't.
"Yeah, Idefinitely know you. You race, don't you? Saw you at the airstrip outside Austin a couple months back."
My blood goes cold.
"You got the wrong person," I say flatly.
"Nah, I don't think so. They called you Hell. You wiped the floor with your opponents." He grins, swaying slightly. "That was some good shit. You race here in Florida too?"
Fuck.
Elfe's staring at me. "You race?"
"Sometimes." I can feel eyes on us now. Multiple sets. Including his. "It's nothing."
"Nothing?" The drunk laughs. "You're fucking famous in the circuit. Hell from Texas, never loses, rides like she's got a death wish."
"You need to walk away," I tell him, keeping my voice level. "Now."
"Come on, just trying to be friendly." He reaches out, puts a hand on my arm. "Maybe you could give me some pointers, show me how you?—"
"Don't fucking touch her."
The voice comes from behind him.
Deep. Texas drawl.
Bravos.
He materialized out of nowhere, standing between me and the drunk with a casual stance that's anything but casual.
His hand rests near his hip—not on a weapon, but close enough to be a warning.
The drunk's face flushes. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Someone who's going to ask you nicely, one time, to walk away."
"And if I don't?"
Bravos smiles. It's terrifying.
"Then I'll make you."
The drunk's friends are standing now, moving toward the bar.
Five of them total.
All big, all drunk, all stupid enough to think they can take on an MC member.
The Raiders at nearby tables are standing too.
