“The lady said?—”
I spin, getting in the ringleader’s face. I tower over him—over all of them—by a few inches, and years of wrestling cattle have made me fearless. “The lady has a goddamn name, and if you don’t know it, butt the hell out.”
“Take it outside, Hennessy,” Silas calls from the bar. He doesn’t care about the fighting. In fact, he’d be the first one out the door to watch, but he hates broken glass and busted tables. The high-top we’re standing around has a splint around one leg because Silas refuses to replace it.
“God, Durban,” Campbell moans. “Schtay out of it.”
I didn’t waste the last three hours to let her push me away. If Iverson or Sunny found out I left her here, I’d get the shit beat out of me worse than these guys could ever do, and Jamison might spike her blood pressure.
“One last warning,” I tell her.
She frowns and makes a move for the beer.
Oh, hell no. I bend and put my shoulder into her gut, wrap my arm around her curvy, muscular legs, and lift. Her purse digs into my shoulder, but I barely notice when I have an armful of lush woman.
“Durban!” She kicks her feet, and that only makes her body jiggle against me.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” one of the guys says, but I ignore them. I propel her out the door and make sure she doesn’t get slammed in the head with it. She’s an inch taller than her sister, but much shorter than me. She flails her legs until I hear a groan. Cool spring mountain air surrounds us.
She bats at my back and my butt. “Durban.” Her moan almost gives me pause.
The door whacks open behind us.
“Listen, asshole,” one of the guys says. “You can’t go around abducting women.”
I’d admire their sense of protection if I thought they actually wanted to look out for her. My brothers and I have had too many experiences in Bootleg rescuing women from the seasonal staff that comes to town. Some of them are decent. A lot are college kids. Some of them roam from job to job to stay under law enforcement or child support’s radar.
I continue to my pickup.
“Durban.” Her croak doesn’t sound good.
“Should’ve given me your goddamn keys,” I growl.
“Hey, fucker! We’re talking to you.”
They are also catching up to my longer strides. My pickup’s parked at the edge of the lot, backed in so I can drive out without watching for drunks stumbling around.
A hand grabs my shoulder just as she clenches my ass, and a loud retch rips from her. I set her on her feet, but she falls to her knees and vomits. I drop with her and gather her long, silky strands away from her face.
The ringleader, who had it bad for Campbell, jumps back, disgust twisting his face. “Fucking gross.”
His buddies look equally horrified. They ditch us and rush back into the bar.
Well, that’s one way to take care of them.
The pool of puke grows behind my pickup. Campbell’s narrow shoulders shake as she heaves, rocking forward to throw up, then back to catch her breath.
A sob wrenches out of her, and she drags a shaky wrist across her mouth. The smell rises around us like a noxious cloud.
“Are you done?” I ask.
She spits, but nods. “I think so,” she wheezes.
“I think I have some napkins in the truck.”
“Okay.” She sounds so small my normal irritation tamps down, but not far. All of this was preventable, but she won’t fucking listen.
I help her up and hang on to her shoulders as she stumbles to the passenger door. She doesn’t get in.
