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Emma’s standing on the porch when I get out of my truck.

“Will you drive my car?” she asks, handing me her keys. “I think she’s going to need to lie down.”

Emma’s expression surprises me. It isn’t fear or sadness that draws down the corners of her mouth. It’s resignation. Exhaustion sallows her skin and darkens the moons beneath her eyes.

I try to reassure her, but she’s not convinced. Neither am I when she tells me where the bartender told her to pick up Rachel. Mick’s Place. Except she has no idea where that is. Sadly, I do.

It’s the same shady-ass bar we stopped at the night she came down with the flu.

I’m tempted to tell Emma to wait for me at the house, except I’m not sure what to expect. If Rachel’s drunk or hurt, I may need Emma to care for her while I drive.

“You should stay in the car while I go in and get her, okay?”

The bar is still the shithole I remember with its broken neon sign, missing shingles, and a row of motorcycles in the lot. Not to mention the predatory scumbags standing out front.

“Stay in the car. I’ll be right out.” I tell Emma, shutting the door before she can attempt to argue. She remains in the passenger seat and locks the door. Good.

I try to ignore the men jeering at a woman who walks by. I think I recognize the guy approaching them, clasping the hand of a biker on the end. The friend Rachel came to see the last time we were here.

“What the hell, Rachel,” I mutter as I enter.

The same bartender’s behind the bar, wearing a jean vest with nothing underneath, chewing on a toothpick. He recognizes me—probably hard to forget in a place like this—and nods to the slumped form at the far end of the bar.

Rachel’s unconscious, her head collapsed into her folded arms on the dingy bar top.

“Tell her not to come back,” the bartender says, like he’s threatening me. I want to punch the guy for overserving her, but I clench my anger back, grinding my teeth.

I lift her easily enough. She doesn’t rouse. The sweet smell of liquor mixes with her perfume, creating a musky scent. It’s basically seeping from her pores. I’m considering bringing her directly to the emergency room to get her stomach pumped. The patrons make room, chuckling in our wake, as I carry her to the entrance, pushing the door open with my shoulder.

Emma’s out of the car as soon as she sees us, opening the back door to allow me to lay Rachel across the seat.

“Hey, buddy.” I barely register the words.

I’m walking around the back of the car when I hear, “Hey, you.” It’s the same guy.

I stop when I should’ve kept walking. A piece of work in a long leather coat nods at me. “Why don’t you let me take one of those girls off your hands? I could show this one a good time.” He proceeds to scan Emma from head to toe, practically drooling. He’s got to be fricken insane to be that bold.

"Are you talking to me?” I approach him, my fists already clenched.

“Yes, I’m talking to you.” His mangled mustache spreads into a smile as he molests Emma with his eyes again. “I want a taste.” He moves toward her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I open and close my fists, deciding on my best move. I eye the leering cretins who could jump me at any moment, leaving Emma helpless. God, I wish Collin were here. I’m not used to being without him—never in this situation.

The piece of shit ignores me and speaks directly to Emma, “I think you’d taste good.”

I don’t think. I move, hefting him by the collar of his jacket and slamming him against the car. “Don’t you fucking touch her,” I growl within an inch of his detestable maw.

I hear shuffling feet, but no one lays a hand on me. I stare into his soulless eyes, and he dares to ask me, “What are you going to do?”

That’s not a question I need to think too hard about. I lift my fist.

“Jonathan, don’t.”

Emma’s small, quivering voice is a tether to my arm. “Please, let’s just go.”

I glance at her. The fear in her eyes. Her arms clutched tightly to her body. She’s terrified.

Of me?