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“What the hell?” I grip the door handle and look out the window.
A blur runs past.
Dark hair, then red, then blonde.
I sit up straighter. “Stop the limo,” I say even as the car begins to roll again.
“Sir, we’re not at an intersection.”
But I’m already opening the door. The car stops almost as abruptly as it did a moment ago. I shift out and fasten the button on my jacket as I stalk across the sidewalk, ignoring throngs of traffic emerging from bars and casinos as I head straight for the glowing yellow buffet sign.
Inside the restaurant, groups of inebriated partygoers mob the food.
I scan the seating until my gaze locks on them.
My fiancée perches in a booth, surrounded by her friends.
At least I think it’s my fiancée.
Her hair is a mess around her face, and she’s wearing an oversized white T-shirt with some godforsaken handwritten lettering on the front.
“Raegan,” I say softly as I stop in front of the table. “What the hell is going on?”
Most grown men would cower at the expression I’m giving her, but she tilts her chin as she spots me.
Her eyes radiate open defiance. “If you want my chicken balls, you’re going to have to fight me for them.”
Every bit of this scene is unbelievable, from her outfit to the guilty expressions on Annie and Elle across from her.
“Hey, guys,” Annie says brightly. “What trouble did you get into?”
“We drove race cars. We even snuck onto the podium and popped champagne. It was fantastic.” Beck’s voice is reverent.
But I’m focused on Rae.
I lean in to speak against her ear. “You’re the one in trouble.”
“No. You are. Tonight was supposed to be normal.” She uncrosses and recrosses her legs.
“I allowed you to go to a strip club.”
“First, you don’t need to ‘allow’ me to go anywhere. Second, you think that’s normal? Normal means no security,” she continues as I stare her down.
“You need protection,” I grind out. “It’s not a choice you have. You can’t be any woman.”
“I was tonight. And it was great until now.”
The words land like a blow.
Hurt seeps into my bones, but anger takes the sting out.
“You turned off your phone. Do you know how I found you?” I demand. “The three of you were running through the street like a drunken mob.”
“Not sure three is a mob,” Beck says.
I ignore him. “You could have been hurt. Or worse!”
The patrons at the next booth over swivel to face us.
