Page 7 of Rough Return

But she had it all wrong. He wasn’t afraid. He was savoring the sight of it all. Of home. The only place he’d ever felt he belonged.

He sighed and popped open the door. “Lead on, Princess.” She cringed at the little pet name, but kept walking then yanked the door open. All he could see inside was darkness. An ominous absence of light. Or maybe it just seemed that way.

When he inched through the door, he saw plenty. And not much had changed. The TVs were bigger, sofas older, the floor more scuffed. But the bar still had a liquor shelf fit for a swanky nightclub, a who’s who of hard liquor. The gym’s sweat sock and vodka smell still permeated every other space, and the old chains and gear racks hung from the ceiling as a permanent reminder of what had once been.

A couple of new guys, hardened criminals judging by their prison tattooed faces, sat with Bruce and Frank at one of the poker tables. Bruce had five stacks of chips, a card in his lap, and the best poker face in the club. Grier didn’t mention his penchant for cheating. No one had told him. He’d learned the expensive way. Looked like the new guys would, too.

One-eye Jim had a Hell Kat on his lap on one of the sofas, and Jez, queen Hell Kat, shot him a smile as she handed Nate a beer at the bar.

No one moved. No one breathed. Not until Fiona laced her right hand with his and held up her left, the one with a boulder-sized diamond on her third finger.

“Holy shit.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Fiona dug her fingernails into his skin. Probably would have reached bone had he not jerked. She eased her hold.

Grier waited, hands stinging, jaw pounding, stomach revolting. And he had questions. Like where the hell did she get that thing? Also, did she expect him to pay for it?

A slow throb started at the base of his skull and migrated to his forehead, and still, no one moved. No one but Fiona, who used their clasped hands to wrap his arm around her waist, as she laid her free hand over his heart. She pressed in close, intoxicating, suffocating, and so damned sexy his dick turned to stone.

When she pulled his head down to press her lips to his ear, he groaned. “Play along.” Her whisper warmed his ear and every cell to his toes.

He nodded because, even if he wanted to answer, there wasn’t enough blood left in his brain for natural thought to occur.

She was not so afflicted. Of course, her breasts weren’t rubbing along her forearm with each inhale and exhale she took. “All right. I know what you all think you know. But Grier didn’t run out with Kye. He was on club business abroad, protecting that attorney and making sure she knew our business needed to remain private.”

Grier didn’t widen his eyes or drop open his mouth. Instead, he kept his jaw clenched and his face blank. Wasn’t she just full of surprises?

Frank stood. “Bullshit. I was here when he ran off. Max was ready to kill him then, and I’d bet my dick he still wants him dead.”

Fiona hardened her voice. “Lucky for you, I’m not in the mood to add to my collection of tiny cocks.”

One-eye pushed his Hell Kat away and stood, his eyes burning with anger. “Why should we believe you?”

Grier had a choice. Stand up for “his woman” or walk away a coward. “Because she said it.”

“She says a lot of things.” His hand rested on a knife sheathed at his belt. “Doesn’t make them true, and she doesn’t speak for Max. We all know that.” He spat on the floor and glared at Fiona. “And once her daddy dies, I’m gonna turn her into a Hell Kat where she belongs.”

“Jim, you couldn’t turn a fart into a turd. Sit down.” The odds in a fight didn’t favor Grier. Jim had always been partial to blades over guns, hand-to-hand battles of strength over finesse fighting. And Grier was still aching from two-punch Hamilton.

“Fuck you, baby traitor.”

He pulled the knife.

Shit. That damned thing was more of a sword, both shiny edges gleaming sharp and long enough to gut him in a single stroke.

But Jim was slow and stupid. So if someone was going to challenge Grier, he was glad it hadn’t been Nate, Bruce or Frank, or either of the new guys he didn’t know.

“I’m going to fuck up what’s left of your face, then I’ll fight whoever else feels like going. And after I kick your asses, I’m going to take my woman into one of those rooms”—he pointed to the far side of the club where they had stowed some beds for the after-parties that happened almost every night—“and we’re going to celebrate our engagement. So let’s get this shit done.” He turned to Fiona, wrapped a hand around the back of her head and tugged her forward. The kiss, hard and bruising, was as much for show as to put his big fucking mouth to use for something other than inviting the whole club to take a shot at him.

Not that he wouldn’t happily rearrange Jim’s face, but if he didn’t have to, he’d rather remained unbloodied.

Staggered by the sheer pleasure of his tongue swirling inside her mouth, of the taste of her, the little whimper in her throat, and her hands tangled in his hair, he pushed her back. Oh, this woman. Fierce. Potent. Merciless.

The haze over her eyes said she’s been equally affected. So, she liked it rough. Good.

But right now, Jim didn’t seem like a guy inclined to wait for Grier to get laid. He had to be at least forty, probably closer to fifty, but he’d been without his left eye since childhood and had learned to overcome the blind spot by letting his opponent think they had the upper hand. Grier wouldn’t make that mistake.

Jim always said he’d been born a Demon and he would die one. And Demons didn’t fight fair. “I’m gonna slice your dick off and use it to fuck your old lady.”

“Kind of sick, Jim. But at least then you’ll be able to say you have one.” Grier hated trash talk but it was Jim’s favorite stall tactic.