No one moved to clean up the glass and spilt liquid. No wonder his boots stuck to the floor. Shaking his head, Street retrieved his beer, noticing the blonde had moved on to speak to another man at the bar. He lifted the bottle to his lips, and a hand stopped him.
Street looked straight into the prettiest brown eyes. The bar employee shook her head. “Don’t drink that,” she whispered under her breath.
“Rosa! What are you doing? We’re running out of ice. Stop flirting with the customers and go get another bucket,” a grizzled, old man yelled from the office door just around the corner. The open door signaled the owner or manager kept a close eye on either his clientele or his customers. Or both.
“Sorry, Joe. On it!” Rosa leaned down to pick up the bucket at her feet. Her voice carried to Street as she spoke toward the floor. “They put something in your drink. Get out of here.”
A wave of dizziness hit as Street stood. He stiffened his spine, struggling to hold his shit together. On the way to the door, he steadied himself against the walls. A couple of women asked if he was okay and tried to wrap their arms around him. Street extricated himself from them as he quickened his pace to the door.
The cool night air revived him a bit. A wave of nausea hit him, and he vomited a vile-tasting liquid on the front steps as people hurried out of his way. Street didn’t stop or respond to their jokes or offers of assistance. Scanning the people gathered outside, he noted a group of men in leather jackets to the right.
Instantly, he headed left. Shouts followed him. Street ducked into an alley to find somewhere to hole up until his head cleared. An arm wrapped around his waist, and his fist came up clenched. He barely stopped himself from belting the woman with the dark eyes.
“They’re coming. Let me help you.”
He was in trouble. Street decided quickly to trust the woman who’d warned him. One more drink of that concoction would have either killed him or knocked him out. He let her guide him through several streets, turning repeatedly as if they were going in circles.
“Where’s your bike?” she asked.
“Front Street and Third. I can’t drive,” Street admitted, as he struggled to stay on his feet. He could hardly see as he staggered next to her.
“Give me the keys. I’ll drive.”
“No one drives my bike.”
“I will tonight unless you’re eager to get turned over to the Ravagers,” she told him, holding out her hand.
The mention of that MC sent an icy wave down Street’s spine. Lucien had wanted to send three of them to the bar. Street had insisted on going himself. The location was on his way from the tech place Angel had needed him to visit to grab some storage devices.
His fingers didn’t work as he fumbled with his pocket. Fuck! He was in bad shape.
Her hand pushed his away as she reached into his jeans. He wasn’t too far gone that he missed her accidental brush against his cock pressing against the tight denim. Street cursed himself for reacting to the woman who’d risked everything to save him.
“Shut up!” she snapped, and he realized he was talking out loud and not in his head. “Get on the bike. They’re coming.”
She threw her leg over and pulled him into position behind her. Her strength surprised him. After tugging his arms around her waist, she gunned the engine as footsteps raced toward them.
“You’re aiming right at them,” he yelled.
She didn’t swerve but continued on a path to ram into them. At the last moment, the group scattered, creating a path for her to steer through. She twisted and turned through roads and alleyways Street didn’t recognize before popping onto the highway.
Street’s head felt incredibly heavy. He rested his forehead on her shoulder and locked his hands together in front of her stomach before passing out.
