The engines cut.
“Some assholes.”
Elias Crowe pulls his helmet off slowly, drags a hand back through his hair. Younger brother to the new president of theDevil’s Hand MC. A fucking thorn in my side since high school. Every day, he gets closer and closer to the top of my to-do list.
“Well if it isn’t everyone’s least favorite Calloway,” Elias drawls. His eyes move to Bellamy, and his mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile. “Do yourself a favor, sweetheart, and run as fast as you can from this one. He’s not safe to be around.”
“That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.” Bellamy scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Do it again, but try harder this time.”
One of the guys behind him huffs a quiet laugh, but Elias doesn’t react to it. His attention stays fixed, measured, like he’s deciding how he wants to play this.
Crowe swings his gaze to me. “you better muzzle your bi?—”
I erase the distance between us in three steps. “Careful now, Crowe. You don’t want to make your brother an only child, do you?”
It’s a fucking low blow, pressing on the eternally festering wound and cause for all the animosity between us. But I don’t regret it if it takes his attention off of her.
He climbs off his bike slowly. We’re close enough that I can smell the cigarettes on him. “You threatening me, Calloway?”
“Threat?” I rear back, flashing him a grin. I can feel how wild it is around the edges, a reminder for him more than anything. “Nah, just a statement, man. I will not be held liable for what happens if you insult her. You feel me?”
“This how you guys run things now? Threatening people for exercising their First Amendment right?”
A laugh tumbles out of me. “C’mon, Crowe. We both know you failed outta high school, so why don’t you spit out what you came here to say, and get the fuck out of my face.”
His jaw tightens. He spits on the ground between us. “Fuck you and your piece of shit family. Word on the street is your ma’son the way out.” A beat. “Can’t fucking wait to watch your family burn.”
Behind him, one of his guys chuckles, fist-bumps the third.
I look at Crowe. Then I let out a slow breath through my nose. “You done?”
Crowe’s face goes red and splotchy at the collar. He closes the last step between us. “Nah, man. I’m not fucking done. Because when you get run outta town, the first fucking thing I’m gonna do is take your girl. I’ll let my boys take a?—“
My fist connects with his mouth.
He staggers, hands flying up. Blood sheets over his upper lip and he drags the back of his wrist across it, staring at the smear. “Don’t just stand there,” he spits at his guys. “Hold him.”
They scramble off their bikes. I roll my neck once and let them come.
I’ve gone two-on-one with Bishop and Gage before. These guys telegraph every move—the first one drops his shoulder before he swings, and I’m already stepping into it, catching his arm and using his own momentum to put him into the hood of the nearest car. The second one gets the tire iron in the ribs before he closes the distance. He doubles, wheezing. I grab a fistful of the first guy’s shirt and haul him upright, cocking back?—
“Rafe.”
I go still. I let go. The guy crumples to the pavement.
Crowe has Bellamy from behind, one arm banded across her chest, his other hand pinching her jaw. She’s twisting, sharp and fast, but he’s already braced for it, tightening his grip just enough to keep her contained.
I’m moving before I decide to.
Then the wrench comes up, aimed at me. “Don’t fucking move.”
I stop two feet out.
“Or I take this,” Crowe says, dragging the flat of the wrench along her cheekbone, “and make sure your girl isn’t quite so pretty anymore. And I’ll still pass her around to all my friends.”
My hands hang open at my sides.
My breathing evens out.
