Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Sokkar.” I scrape her lobe with my teeth and repeat the line of the song in Arabic, then English. “Life is like sugar. Sweet and irresistible. Just like you.”
Her husky laughter resounds in my chest. “No one thinks I’m sweet.”
“Maybe you’ve just never melted for anyone else.” Like sugar on my tongue.
She turns in my arms, wrapping herself around me. Our bodies are flush as the music changes, the low refrain allowing for an exchange of words.
“I feel like you’re trying to have your wedding night in front of all these people.”
“No, princess. That experience is one I won’t share.”
“The back seat of the car?” Her laughter trills as she pulls away. “A back alley, maybe?”
I give a slow shake of my head and crook my finger. Don’t run away.
“Be right back.” Her mouth crooks. “I have to visit the little girls' room.”
I watch the horde part for her before I go back to our table. And take stock of Antonio’s stern expression.
“What is it?”
“The asshole.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder to the dance floor behind him.
“What about him?” I expect him to offer to beat a few things into the—though it’s Lavender’s education that I feel is more pressing—when his expression hardens.
I’ve known him long enough to know that means something.
“Leo heard his friends talking when he went to the pisser. They have GHB and were talking about spiking her on the dance floor.” Antonio makes a jabbing motion with his fist. “His idea. He brought the gear. Syringes. Pills also.”
“That fucker,” I grate out.
“I guess we’re taking the trash out after all.”
I nod. Yes. Yes, we are.
Five minutes later, we’re in the alley behind the club. A place without security cameras currently. Or much in the way of lighting.
“Look, mate. I only danced with her.” The fucker holds out his hands in belligerence rather than supplication.
“Did she tell you who I am?”
“Yeah, her old man.” This comes with an ill-timed sneer. “I guessed you got off on seeing her with other blokes.”
“You touch her?” I ask, my feet following his retreating pattern.
“We just danced.”
“You didn’t give her anything?”
“I would have.” This time, he leers, his gaze sliding left to his friends for agreement. Maybe reassurance. But they’re too busy with Antonio. They look like they’re having fun, palms spread on the Range Rover positioned for a classic pat down. I should’ve guessed as much. Antonio was once a cop in Barcelona. He just wasn’t a very good one.
“Anchas,” he growls, kicking the insides of one of their ankles. “More wide.”
“What the fuck, man?” one of them complains.
Antonio answers him with a punch to the back of his head.
“Fuck!”
“Hands on the car,” he repeats with a kick to the ankle.
“Boss.”
I glance Antonio’s way, reaching up to catch the baggy that flies through the air. Pills, syringe, and a vial containing clear liquid.
“Which one of you assholes is diabetic?” I hold the baggy aloft.
The man in front of me shakes his head, his bravado slipping. “It’s just a bit of gear. Personal use, you know?” The smart-arse shoots me an angry glance like he knows what’s coming.
He really has no idea.
“Personal?” His eyes follow the bag’s descent, and he watches as I grind that shit under my heel. “I’m offended you would take me for that idiot. Now, that’s personal.”
I glance down, and his eyes follow as I knew they would. When his head comes up, it’s met with a solid right jab to the nose. It’s always an effective start. The quicker, the better because this one thing will catch them off guard, even if your opponent is braced for trouble.
A sharp jab in the nose is disorientating and knocks a person off balance. And it’s fucking painful, which I can attest to myself. Tears. Blood. Broken cartilage. Shock. Temporary blindness, thanks to flooding tear ducts. Break his nose, and you leave your opponent shocked and crying…
…which gives me a moment to pull on the Italian leather driving gloves Leo had passed to me as I’d left the club.
He has good taste, I think as I duck from his blind swing. Then I land him a swift hit to the solar plexus. Get that sweet spot, and you’ll shut your opponent up, winding him. A few to the breadbasket and if you hit him hard enough, maybe some internal bleeding. Pull him closer, like a hug. And get him in the kidneys.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Pain. So much pain. He’ll be pissing blood for days.
My body takes over then, the animal inside rising to the fore. Pressure builds in my chest and my head, my heart racing, and my shoulders aching, biceps fatigued as I deliver punch after punch.
“Boss.”
I don’t stop. I'm on the ground now with my thighs spread over his waist.
“Boss, stop!”
I pull off a glove, reaching into my boot for my blade, when Antonio’s hand on my shoulder brings my attention back to the bloody pulp on the ground.