The biggest one stands. “You lost, Ruthless Devil?”
“Nope. Found exactly what I was looking for.” I crack my knuckles. “You assholes have been hitting our businesses. Thought it was time someone returned the favor.”
“There are three of us and one of you,” another one points out.
“I like those odds.” I grin. “Makes it fair.”
The first punch comes from the guy on my left. I dodge, drive my fist into his stomach, and hear the air whoosh out of him. He doubles over, and I bring my knee up into his face.
One down.
The big one rushes me. We crash into a table, sending plates and coffee flying. He gets a solid hit to my ribs, but I return it with interest. My knuckles split on his teeth, but I don’t care.
The third guy tries to pull a knife. Bad choice. I grab his wrist, twist until bones crack, take the knife, and toss it across the room.
They fight dirty. So do I.
By the time it’s over, all three are on the ground, groaning. I’ve got split knuckles, a gash on my forearm from where one of them got lucky with broken glass, and my ribs are going to be bruised as hell tomorrow.
Worth it.
The diner owner—an older woman with gray hair—stares at me from behind the counter.
“Sorry about the mess,” I tell her. “Send the bill to the Ruthless Devils. We’ll cover it.”
She just nods, too shocked to speak.
I walk out, climb on my bike, and head home. The adrenaline starts to wear off, and everything hurts, but my head feels clearer.
I’m still jealous. Still frustrated. But at least I worked some of it out on people who deserved it.
When I get back to the clubhouse, Bonnie’s in the common room talking to Jamie. She spots me immediately, and her eyes go wide. “Titan, what happened?”
“Nothing. Just a disagreement with some Savage Legion members.”
“A disagreement.” She crosses to me and grabs my arm, examining the gash. “This needs stitches.”
“It’s fine?—”
“It’s not fine.” She looks at Jamie. “Can I borrow your kit?”
“Go ahead.” Jamie hands over her medical bag. “Try not to let him bleed on the furniture.”
Bonnie takes my uninjured arm and steers me toward the stairs. “Come on. My room has better light.”
“Your room or Ash’s room?” The words come out more bitter than I intended.
She pauses on the stairs and looks back at me. “Mine.”
We climb to the second floor, and she leads me to her childhood bedroom. It’s smaller than Ash’s room, with posters on the walls, her sketchbook on the desk, and the smell of vanilla candles.
“Sit,” she orders, pointing to her bed.
I sit, watching as she washes her hands at the small sink in the corner, then comes back with Jamie’s medical kit.
“This is going to hurt,” she warns.
“Everything hurts. What’s a little more pain?”
