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“Another,” I tell the bartender and slap a twenty-dollar bill down on the bar top to cover my drinks. “Thanks,” I say when he tops my shot glass.
Trey isn’t here, but a telltale zing up my spine tells me that someone has his eyes on me.
I smile to myself and head toward the exit, my gait lazy and my steps long and purposeful. I give no indication that I sense danger lurking close by. I don’t know who it is, and I don’t give a shit what they want because I know what I want.
To fuck some shit up.
“You lost, pretty boy?” The voice is deep and highly amused.
“Not at all,” I reply casually, turning to face the nondescript man with brown hair and dark eyes. The only thing remarkable about him is the patch on the right chest of his kutte. “You the tour guide?”
His brows dip. “What the fuck?”
My hands bunch into fists and flex out, itching to meet this fucker’s face. “Don’t know, man. You’re either trying to help me find my way or something else. Which is it?”
“You don’t belong here, asshole.”
“Interesting.” I scratch my chin. “This your place?”
“In every way that matters,” he growls, clearly pissed off at my answers.
“That means it’s not yours, which means I can go wherever the fuck I want. If you got a problem with that, it ain’t my business.”
He jumps down the two wooden steps, charging forward. “I’m making it my business.”
He swings wildly, and I duck it easily. “You don’t want this,” I tell him with a smile because I know an asshole like him can’t resist the challenge.
“That’s where you’re wrong, punk.” He swings again, a little too wildly, and I move to the side to avoid it.
“I really want to do this,” he says with an ugly grin.
I shrug and pull back my left hand. I hit him with a right uppercut that sends him stumbling backward. “Good. I do, too.” I advance and kick him straight in the face. The sickening crunch sounds before the audible rush of blood. “Get up, fucker. Get up!”
He scrambles to his feet, hands up to protect his face. “You’re a dead man,” he growls.
“One of us is anyway.” His hands and arms protect his face, leaving his midsection wide open to a barrage of body shots. “You should’ve stayed inside.”
He shoves me back, keeping pace with me while throwing a barrage of wild punches. They come so quickly that a few land, grazing my jaw and cheek. Two land in the middle of my chest, and I take the last one head-on to set me up for the next shot.
“You should’ve left when you had the chance,” he blubbers through his loose teeth.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I smile and kick him just below the knee, enjoying the fear in his eyes and the pain as he crumbles to the ground. Just for shits and giggles, I kick his side a few times while he struggles to get back up.
The familiar sound of a switchblade whirs, and I groan.
“What the fuck is it with you Skull Crushers and blades? You should call yourselves the cutting boards.” I watch him carefully as he jabs and slices the air between us. “Okay, let’s do this.”
He lunges forward, leading with the blade and slicing it across my left forearm with a smile. “That’s one.”
“You can count?” I laugh and grab his wrist, bending his arm backward until the blade falls. With one arm occupied, I land nearly a dozen blows before he falls to the ground, but I’m not done yet.
The bloodlust beats like a drum as I press my knees into his biceps, trapping him between my legs, flat on his back. The fucker bucks wildly, but I have at least twenty-five pounds on him and a fuck-ton of violence ready to unleash.
Blow after blow rains down on his face until it’s a bloody, almost unrecognizable mess. My smile grows bigger, and I reach for the fallen knife and slash across his forearm. “Son of a bitch!”
“That’s one,” I toss his words back at him and sink the blade into his side. “That’s two.”
“Stop!”
