"Everywhere." Saint completes my sentence.
"Give us a few minutes ladies, then get your asses in there," I order.
The girls giggle, primp their hair and all but eye-fuck us as we walk by.
We reach the door at the far end, just as it bursts open.
Damian's drummer and his bass guitarist burst out.
"What's the hurry?" I frown as his drummer lurches to the side then slams into the wall in his hurry to get away.
"Ah, you don't want to go in there," he stammers.
"What do you mean?" I reach for him. He evades me, brushes past the other guys and races up the corridor.
The bass guitarist, holds up his hands. "Shit, if I'd known what he was mixed up with, I'd have never agreed to be in his band."
I swoop down, grab his collar and haul him to his feet. "What the hell do you mean? You'd bloody well explain yourself."
He nods toward the closed door, "Why don't you find out for yourself?"
"I have a better idea." Saint grabs his neck and twists him away from me. "Why don't you tell us instead?"
"I.... I..." He shakes his head, "The men..." He swallows, "The men inside, they..."
The smell of something foul rends the air. I glance down to find a puddle pooling under him. "Shit, he pissed himself."
"What the—" Saint launches the guy away from him. The bass guitarist falls to the floor, then jumps up.
He careens forward, the other guys make way and he runs past them and in the wake of the drummer.
"What the hell is going on here, what frightened him so much that he wet himself?" Saint mutters.
Exactly.
I shove open the door, stalk inside, then pause in the middle of the room. Saint and Edward flank me.
"What in the ever-lovin’ hell?" I exclaim.
Damian’s in a corner of the room, which is not large, by any means, but the men he’s facing seem to swallow up what little space there is.
All three of the strangers are dressed in suits tailor-made for them. Their hair is buzzed close to the scalp and all are clean-shaven. Two of them stand facing us, their palms folded in front of them, their stance wary, their gaze honed in on us. The man in the middle is younger, our age… Maybe a little older. As I watch, he swings at Damian, who ducks.
He punches suit-guy, who staggers back, recovers, then lunges forward to catch Damian on the side of the head.
"Hey, stop that." I jump forward, Saint and Edward on my heels, only to be stopped by the guards. At least, I assume they are guards. The bastards are massive, at least six-feet six-inches tall, hulking shoulders that almost block out the sight of our friend being beaten.
I hear the sound of more scuffling—a fist connects with flesh, a yell, then Damian reels back. Anger pounds at my temples and adrenaline laces my blood.
"Get away from him." I punch the asshole in front of me and he doesn’t react. Shit, are these guys made of stone?
I exchange glances with Saint, who nods. We back up, then lunge forward, aiming at the same guard. He grunts, then staggers back. I bury my fist in his side, again and again. Saint does the same. As one, we retreat, then spring forward and head butt him. This time, the guard bends over in pain. I swing out at him, catch him in the shoulder, the face, and he sways. Saint kicks his leg out from under him and he topples to the side.
I turn to find Arpad and Baron have tackled the other guard while Edward and Weston head to Damian’s defense. "Back the hell away," Weston growls at the man whose fist is raised toward Damian.
The stranger looks between them, then releases Damian, who stumbles back.
Edward grips his shoulder, rights him, then turns on the stranger. "Who the hell are you? What do you want?" he barks.
