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He places his hand against the small of my back and ushers Quinn and me toward the elevator. “It’s fine, mo cuishe.”
It is clearly not fine.
Reaching the valet outside the hotel we’ve just eaten in, Tristan’s car is parked behind a black SUV. Both have several of the men who work for Tristan standing around them.
“These guys are going to take you home,” Tristan informs Quinn as we head toward the SUV, and he helps her inside. “I would trust each of them with Layla’s life. You can trust each of them, okay?”
She nods lightly as he places a chaste kiss against her cheek. He closes the door and issues his commands to the man closest to him. “Take her home. You don’t leave her. I want you outside her door. Call me if anything happens, understood?”
“Yes, Balor.”
Tristan wastes no time getting me in the car and pulling away from the valet; his eyes are focused on the rearview mirror as much as they are on the road before us. He makes a fast righthand turn, immediately increasing his speed as he watches the mirror before snarling and cursing.
Lifting his hand from my thigh, Tristan grips the seatbelt at my hip and yanks it tightly. “Keep your head down,” he demands.
He stomps on the accelerator. I wrap my fingers around the door handle and the seat beneath me as he races through the city, swerving through traffic.
I glance over the seatback to find a large SUV slipping in and out of traffic as they follow closely behind us. They pull so close behind us that I think they’re going to slam into the back of our car, and then I see them.
The men from the bar.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
TRISTAN
“Tristan.” My name shakily trembles over Layla’s quivering lower lip.
“Head down,” I repeat myself sternly. The SUV behind us taps our bumper, and the car lurches forward. Layla shrieks as she’s jostled in her seat when they slam into us again.
I run the traffic light at the next junction and make a hard left across four lanes of traffic. It momentarily places a little space between us.
But not near enough.
A gunshot booms over the zealous roar of my engine and squealing tires. The side view mirror on Layla’s car shatters to pieces as the bullet causes it to explode. Scrunched into her seat, she shakes in fear as I continue to race toward help.
There are only four of them. It’s a disadvantaged fight. One that I normally would not hesitate to take on because I know damn well I’ve been up against worse.
The rear window explodes with the bang of another gunshot, the lights of the dash going dark as the bullet buries to a stop inside it.
But Layla…
I won’t risk her life.
“Call Conor,” I instruct her as we’re forced over the curb when they ram into us again. “Layla. Darling. I need you to call Conor.”
Her hands shake as she opens the latch on her purse to pull out her phone. She struggles to key in her passcode with her wobbly grip.
“You can do this, mo cuishle.” I nudge her gently with my elbow. “Call Conor. Tell him where we are and that we’re on our way to the club.
“C…Conor,” her voice wavers, “Tris…We’re on East 27th Street…and…um?—”
“Sixth Avenue,” I shout loud enough for Conor to hear me.
“East 27th Street and Sixth Avenue,” she repeats with her quavering voice. “There are men. We’re coming to the club.
“Okay,” she mutters into the phone before dropping it into her lap.
“You did so good.” I glance at her. “So good for me.”
