His eyes narrow. “You?”
I shrug slightly. “Sure.”
He lets out a short laugh that sounds forced now. “There’s three of us.”
“I noticed.”
His smile fades completely. “You think that vest means something out here?”
“It means you picked the wrong place.”
One of the other guys mutters something under his breath, clearly less comfortable now than he was five minutes ago. The first man ignores him and keeps his eyes locked on me.
“You should probably turn around and walk back inside that bar,” he says. “Before this turns into something you don’t want.”
I nod slowly. “It already did.”
That’s when he jabs a finger toward my chest, trying to reclaim some kind of dominance over the situation. It’s the last mistake he makes tonight.
My hand snaps out and catches his wrist before the finger ever touches leather. His expression shifts from smug confidence to startled confusion in the span of half a second as I twist his arm and pull him forward just enough to break his balance. His knees buckle and he drops with a sharp curse as the joint locks under the pressure.
The other two react, but they’re already too late.
The man to my right lunges forward, swinging wide like this is some sloppy bar fight instead of what it actually is. I pivot toward him and drive my elbow straight into his ribs, the impact knocking the air out of him with a harsh grunt. He folds instantly, stumbling backward and clutching his side as he tries to remember how breathing works.
The third man tries to take advantage of the opening and throws a punch at my head. I step inside the swing before it can connect, grabbing the front of his jacket and driving my fist up under his jaw. His teeth snap together hard enough that I hear it over the quiet of the lot before his body collapses onto the gravel. Ten seconds, maybe less.
The man whose arm I’m holding groans when I release him, collapsing sideways into the dirt while the second one staggers backward, still gasping for air. The third rolls onto his side and spits something red onto the ground as he tries to push himself up.
I glance down at them calmly. “If you come back here again,” I say, “you won’t be walking away next time.”
That’s all it takes for them to scramble to their feet with the awkward urgency of men who suddenly realize they made a very bad decision. One of them drags the third toward the car while the other fumbles with the door. The engine roars to life and gravel sprays behind the tires as they tear out of the lot and disappear down the road.
Silence settles over the space once they’re gone.
I roll one shoulder and flex my hand once, letting the tension leave my knuckles as I stand there under the weak glow of the streetlight. Then I glance toward the building behind me. Because I know exactly who’s standing there watching.
I should leave. That’s the logical next step. I came here to see who was leaning on Wayne and make sure they understood that The Rust Nail wasn’t open for negotiation. That part of the job is done now. The three idiots who thought they could muscle their way into a small town bar are halfway down the road nursing bruises and trying to figure out how badly they misjudged the situation. My bike is twenty feet away, the engine will start with one push of the ignition, and I could be back on the highway before anyone inside the bar even realizes I stepped outside.
That’s what I should do, instead, I turn to find the woman from behind the bar standing a few feet away from the building. Thestreetlight catches the edge of her glasses and the silver ring through her septum, and her black hair is still twisted into those messy buns that look ridiculous and somehow completely right on her at the same time. She’s small enough that I could probably pick her up with one arm if I wanted to, but the way she’s standing there makes it clear she’s not the type of woman who needs help standing her ground.
She doesn’t move when I turn toward her. Instead, she shifts her weight slightly and crosses her arms over her chest like she’s settling in for a conversation she’s already decided she’s going to enjoy. The movement lifts her chin just a little, and she tilts her head as I start walking closer across the gravel.
Up close, she’s even smaller than she looked inside the bar. That doesn’t make her presence any less noticeable. If anything, it makes it stronger.
Most people in her position would take a step back when a man my size starts closing the distance between us, especially after watching what just happened to the three idiots who thought they could intimidate their way through The Rust Nail. She doesn’t budge an inch. She just stands there with her arms folded, studying me like she’s evaluating whether I’m worth the trouble of talking to.
Her eyes flick briefly over my shoulders and down my arms before drifting back to my face again. I can practically see the thoughts turning behind those glasses.
I stop a few feet in front of her, leaving enough space between us that she doesn’t have to tilt her head too far to look up at me. The lot is quiet now except for the low hum of the streetlight and the faint music leaking through the back wall of the bar. “Areyou planning on charging admission for the show,” I ask, “or do you usually watch fights for free?”
Her mouth curves slowly, the kind of smile that shows up when someone thinks they’ve got the upper hand in a conversation. “Oh, that?” she says lightly. “I’ve seen bar fights before.” Her gaze drifts past me for a second, toward the direction the car disappeared. “But that wasn’t really a fight.”
She looks back at me again and shrugs one shoulder. “That was more like pest control.”
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. She notices. Of course she does.
She shifts her weight slightly and taps one finger against her arm where it’s folded across her chest. “Also,” she adds, eyeing the cut on my back, “if you’re going to perform free community services in my parking lot, the least you could do is introduce yourself.”
