“Stay back!” I scramble backward, my hip connecting with my desk. Pain radiates up my side, but I ignore it. “I know Tae Kwon Jitsu!”
It’s a big fat lie. I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag. I took one self-defense class at MIT, and spent most of it trying not to throw up from anxiety.
“You know what?” The big bastard sounds almost amused, which surprisingly pisses me off.
“And karate. And?—”
Shit. I don’t know any more names.
He laughs deep and husky as he reaches over and flips on the light switch.
I blink against the sudden brightness, my eyes adjusting, and then?—
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
Standing in my doorway, holding my bat with a red mark blooming across his left cheekbone where I hit him, is the most terrifyingly handsome man I’ve ever seen.
He’s huge—at least six-three with short dark brown hair, and venomous cobalt blue eyes that are currently glaring at me with an intensity that makes my knees feel weak.
The leather vest he’s wearing has a patch on the front declaring him BANE, the Vice President.
Vice President.
My brows shoot up to the sky.
Oh, god. Oh, shit.
This is Cooper Benson. The guy I’ve been bleeding dry.
And I just tried to beat him to death with a baseball bat.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls, his beautiful eyes narrowed to slits.
“Frankie,” I answer stupidly.
His head jerks back. “You’re a fucking girl.”
My brows snap together. He sounds confused. Shouldn’t he know who he came here to take out? He’s not very good at this murder, death, kill stuff.
Before he has a chance to catch up, because clearly he’s a little slow on the uptake, I do the only logical thing.
I grab the cold coffee from my desk in my favoriteGet Fuckedcup and throw it in his face.
Chapter Two
Bane
Two Hours Earlier
“You fuck that purple-haired chick at Kitties yet?” I lift my beer to my lips, waiting for Gator to flip his fucking lid. The grumpy bastard has been even more of an asshole since Bash hired the stripper.
“Why the fuck do you care who I stick my dick in?” he grumbles, staring at something on his phone.
I smirk against the rim of my bottle.
He hasn’t.
