Pulling Saban into my arms, I walk her behind the bar into the hallway leading to Angel’s office.
“Aye, go hang out in Angel’s office until I come for you.” Nodding in the direction I want her to go, stopping when I see the raw vulnerability in her eyes.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Stopping her bobblehead nodding by cupping her chin, I lean down.
“Are we good, beautiful?” Caramel eyes reach mine, and I want to cut my heart out for the uncertainty I see there. Hating myself for putting it there — she deserves better, and I promise myself right then I will be better. There is no more running from this.
“Yeah.” She says it like it’s a question.
“Fuck yeah.” Tugging her into my arms, I give her a gentle squeeze. “G’head. We have a lot to talk about later.”
“Okay.” Her voice sounds small, but she looks at me with all the hope of a pokey little puppy.
I watch until she disappears behind the doors before heading out to maintain order. It’s not that I don’t want her around, but tonight of all nights, Saban is a distraction I can’t allow right now when I have ten of the most ruthless cartel bosses and another dozen MC presidents and their top guys present.
“Aye, your old lady is fine as fuck. I was gone holla at her until I saw you stalk over there and swoop her lil thick ass up.” Obsidian Kane eyes me like he’s deciding if he wants to dead me over my woman.
“Trust me. You don’t want that trouble. I lay a motherfucker down at least every other month over that one.” I say, not bothering to correct him about Saban’s status.
“Deadass?” He barks out a laugh. Shaking his head when I don’t break a smile.
“Aye, I appreciate you respecting the situation for tonight.” It won’t hurt anything to acknowledge the restraint the Panthers Outcasts are showing toward the Ghost Riders.
“We respect y’all, and business is good between our crews, but if we see them up our way or even in the state come this time tomorrow, we are going to dead their asses.” Taking a sip of his Pappy Van Winkle, he winks and flashes a grin, flashing a fanged grill.
Nodding, I pat his shoulder. We can’t ask for anything more. Amnesty can only go so far.
After I make several rounds of the room, ensuring everyone is behaving as they should. I head back to get Saban.
Just as I’m nearing the door, I hear a muffled scream. Cold dread has me bursting through the door.
The lights are low, but I can make out two figures writhing on the patchwork suede sofa.
“N-n-” is enough for me to lunge forward, dragging the bigger body off the smaller one. I take a minute to make sense of what I’m seeing.
In the darkness, Saban’s shirt is half off. She’s tugging her skirt down.
Shame etched across her face.
“What the fuck?” Looking between her and the man I’ve dragged off her confusion slowly gives way to realization.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I snarl at Marco, shoving him away from me.
“Hey,” Throwing his arms up all innocent. “I asked one of your riders where he got his tat from, and he said. Some chick named Saban. I asked around, and they said she was hanging out back here. So I came back here to check her out. I guess you can say things got a little heated.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“Um… I-I fell asleep, and when I w-woke up…It was dark.” Her gaze searches around the room looking for something to hold on to. Finally, she finds my face in the dimness, and her anguished gaze meets mine in the darkness. Words seem to escape her. She shakes her head in denial. Her lips are bruised. There’s a slight discoloration low on her neck, just above her clavicle.
“Did he hurt you?” The question is moot, but I ask it anyway.
“Hey, don’t worry about it, man. It was a mistake. It was dark.”
“But you already knew she was mine.” I pause, watching his reaction, which basically confirms my suspicion. “Anyone here would tell you — she’s fucking mine.”
Unsheathing my hook Bowie knives, I keep strapped to my chest, I stalk toward the piece of shit.
“Unlike the Ghost Riders, el Diablo doesn’t force women. But I’m sure dealing with Rudy may have confused you on the matter.”
“Hey, tonight is supposed to be under amnesty.” Waving his hand frantically, he double-times back on his heels, making his boots scrape the hardwood of the office floor.
