“You’re going to have to pay for that, Constable,” the bartender said somewhere in the background, his voice bored, like bar fights were a regular Tuesday occurrence.
Constable? Wait, was this the actual human officer I’d come to the RCMP station looking for—right before my confrontation with the animatronic Mountie?
Before I could follow that realization thread, the biker launched himself to his feet. He spat out a mouthful of blood and grinnedat the Viking like this was all just part of some violent foreplay. Then he lunged, fist-first.
The Viking fought like a linebacker—all brute strength and sheer power—but the biker was faster. Sharper. For every ham-handed swing the Viking took, the biker landed two. Precise, vicious punches aimed at the most vulnerable spots on the larger guy’s body.
I stood frozen, unable to move or speak.
This wasn’t… this couldn’t be real. I was a chubby, 34-year-old divorcee who couldn’t be bothered to wear makeup or anything nicer than a pair of scrubs most days. Random strangers—huge, hot random strangers—didn’t get into fistfights over me. Heck, they didn’t even ask me out.
What is even happening?
As if to answer, a sickening crack echoed through the bar as the biker’s fist smashed squarely into the Viking’s nose. Blood sprayed, and the blond stumbled back, cupping his face with both hands.
“Enough!”
The voice cut through the chaos like a whip cracking, and I turned to see him—the Mountie from the station.
His uniform was pristine against the backdrop of the rustic bar, and his expression was ice-cold as he strode over to the two fighters.
Within seconds, he had both the Viking and the biker zip-cuffed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the Viking said, his voice whistling as he spoke. “She smells so good. I lost my mind when this Iron Claw tried to talk to her,touchher…”
“I had every right to touch her,” the biker growled. “She’smyValentine’s Day box of chocolates.”
“Bear up, both of you.” The Mountie’s glare snapped between the two men like a switchblade. “I don’t care what her scent is doing to you. You need to get yourselves under control. And you...”
His cold, dark eyes landed on me.
“Go home before you wreak any more havoc here!”
“Okay, that’s a little dramatic,” I answered, jerking my head back. “I was just about to order dinner before these guys started, like, literally sniffing at me—and fighting for reasons I still don’t quite understand!”
“You hungry, baby?” the biker asked, grinning through a bloodied mouth. One of his eyes had already swollen shut. “I’d be happy to cook you something good.”
“Not from a holding cell, you won’t,” the Viking cut in before I could respond, blood still streaming from his nose. His voice was muffled and thick, like speaking through a layer of cotton.
“Shut your mouths, the both of you,” the Mountie gritted out. Then he pointed at the bartender. “And if you feed her or tell her anything else, I’ll throw you and your twin in the station jail, too.”
The handsome bartender raised his hands in nonchalant surrender. “You got it, Takoda.”
“Wait, but what about—” I started to ask, only to flinch when the Mountie the bartender had called Takoda scowled so hard it felt like a physical shove.
“Go home,” he repeated between clenched teeth. “Before it’s too late.”
I shook my head at him. “Too late for what?”
A dark shadow crossed over his face. And instead of answering, he just turned back around to drag the two men out of the bar.
Leaving me standing there in stunned silence.
Save for mystomach, which growled again, loud enough to echo in the high-ceiling Bar & Grill.
But the bartender avoided my gaze like he could neither hear nor see me.
“Well,” I muttered, woefully regretting not stopping for a sandwich at the mountainside Barrington Super Center I'd passed on the way up here. “I guess dinner's not happening .”
