Page 68 of Trigger Happy Ending

My fingers knot in the back of his hair, while my other hand grabs his jaw. I slam his face into the bar so hard the glasses on the counter rattle. A dull thunk followed by the sound of his beer tipping over, spills across the wood. He drops to the floor in a heap, knocked the fuck out for a microsecond, before he clutches his nose, blood trickling between his fingers.

I lean down, my voice laced with hate. “Touch me again and die.”

He stumbles back, sliding his ass across the sticky wooden floor, muttering something that sounds a lot like “fucking crazy bitch” before standing and disappearing through the doors onto the street.

I wonder what hurts more. His broken nose or his ego?

Adrenaline rushes through me as I reach for my bag and Cherry’s arm to leave—save security the trouble of kicking us out—when the bartender slides over two fresh shots.

“On the house,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Best entertainment I’ve seen here in years.”

Cherry turns to me slowly, her eyes wide and bright. I kind of expected her to be shocked, but all I see is elation. “Are you fucking kidding me? What are you? Buffy?”

“Something like that.” I smirk, knocking back the tequila. I shake my head as the liquor burns its way down my throat. Cherry slams hers back, also wincing at the burn.

“That was some bad-ass bitchery.”

I laugh and raise my wrist, bracelet on full display. “Ride or die, bitch.”

A shit-eating grin spreads across Cherry’s face. “Ride or die.”

Chapter 29

Soren

The thrum of bass crawls up my spine the second I step out of the elevator and onto the VIP floor of the Golden Claw. The night has finally arrived. Agent O’s orders are to let Carson lead the conversation. If PARM-17 comes up, great. If it doesn’t? Not a huge deal, just earn their trust. The same security that escorted me last time nods sharply and gestures for me to follow. I adjust my cuffs, letting the façade settle in place.

Lukas Klein. German-American arms dealer. Here for a night with the boys. Easy.

It’s debaucherous here tonight. Rowdy, drunken patrons crowd the VIP floor. The female-to-male ratio looks like it’s five to one. My eyes can’t help but look for Raine as I stride past the cocktail bar, but I don’t see her.

Angel. I remind myself. She’s Angel tonight.

We didn’t really discuss a plan, and now I’m thinking that perhaps we should have.

My escort presses his palm into the mirrored door before it hisses open.

Carson sits dead center on the curved leather lounge, facing the small, round stage, one arm slung along the back, the other nursing an amber drink. Navy silk shirt, unbuttoned enough to see his gold chain.

Next to him, a jovial Senator Wilson.

To the Senator’s left, a mountain of muscle. This must be the Russian the Agency mentioned. His eyes rake over me in a single slow pass, filing me under possible problem.

I file him under the same fucking category.

“Ah, Lukas.” Carson grins, standing to greet me. “My good man.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder, like brothers.

“Carson,” I say, tone friendly and upbeat. “Good to see you.”

My eyes skim the table where there’s a thousand dollar bottle of whiskey and a plate of cocaine.

“Let me introduce you,” he says, turning towards the men. “Senator Wilson.”

“Senator.” I nod.

“Lukas. I’ve heard good things.” Wilson smiles. He’s nervous, intimidated probably. He should be considering who is in the room.