Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Devon
I’m fucking dead. Goddammit.
My chest’s been in knots all day, but I push through the door of Arnie’s bar with a swagger I don’t feel. The place is dim and crowded like always. Almost every table is full of bikers, either killing time or killing each other, depending on their mood.
I tug my hood up and head for the back corner booth, half hidden in shadow. Arnie’s already there, legs spread with a drink in hand. My stomach churns at the sight of his pasty face.
“Devon,” he grins, flashing rotten teeth. “About damn time.”
His little court of douchebags surrounds him like usual—two meatheads and some scrawny fuck flipping a butterfly knife.
I slowly slide into the booth across from them. “You said nine o'clock. It’s nine.”
“Depends on whose clock you’re using.” The bastard chortles before slicking back his greasy hair. “You got my money?”
My fingers twitch nervously against my knee. “Almost.”
I ain’t got shit.
Arnie chuckles and shakes his head. “‘Almost’. You love that word. Almost doesn't get me my dope back, kid.”
“I’ve been working on it, man. Things have been slow.”
“See, that's the problem. Slow don't pay the bills. The longer you stay at my motel without paying, the more money I lose from clients who actually can. This ain't a fucking charity.”
My pulse pounds in my ears loud enough to rival the music. I drop my gaze to the weathered tabletop. “I'll get the rest. Just give me a few more days.”
“I've heard that before.” He tilts his head. “Unless you’d rather work it off again like last time. You were good for business.”
Every muscle in me locks up. “I said I’m done with that.”
Arnie downs what’s left of his drink and slams it on the table. “Sure you are. But we both know you don’t have many options, do you?”
The air thickens, clogging my throat. Every instinct screams at me to bolt, but I don’t move—not with his dogs flanking me. I just pat my pockets instead and pull out a lighter to ignite the cigarette tucked behind my ear. “What do you want me to do?”
Please, not like last time. Not again.
Arnie watches me lengthily before nodding toward the bar. “Tell you what. Get yourself a drink, you look like you need it. We’ll talk business after.”
Inhaling deep, I let my lungs fill with smoke. “I’m a little short on cash right now.”
“Then you owe me that, too. And I'm not asking.”
His cronies get up from the booth when he snaps his fingers, and the click of a blade flipping open has me stiffening.
“Go on,” Arnie says softly. “Get him a drink.”
The guy with the knife steps forward, but he doesn't move toward the bar. He moves toward me.
Grabbing my wrist, he hauls me to my feet hard enough to knock the cigarette from my fingers. “Jesus, what the fuck.”
They start dragging me away toward the back office, and something ugly snaps in my chest. I've seen the kind of shit they do to people in that room who can't pay.
I react on instinct, elbowing the guy behind me square in the gut. He grunts, loosening his grip enough for me to rip free and make a run for it.
Bad call.
The first punch comes before I can make it to the bathroom, straight to my temple. Pain explodes behind my eyes as I stumble back, barely staying on my feet. Someone grabs my hoodie and slams me into the wall, blasting the breath from my lungs.
“You fucking whore,” one of my attackers growls.
My knee connects with someone's dick, knuckles clipping a cheek. Blood floods my tongue from a blow to the jaw. The room starts to spin, noise warping in my ears like I'm underwater.
“Let me go, you piece of shit,” I holler before another fist lands on my ribs. Then another, sending me to the floor. I curl into myself instinctively, protecting my face as multiple pairs of steel-toed boots connect with my sides and back.
I am so fucking fucked.
This is it.
This is how I die: Stomped to death in some dive bar in Salt Lake City by two meatheads who barely share a brain cell between them. Over cocaine.
How fucking embarrassing.
Another blow cracks against my stomach, blacking out my vision. When I try to push onto my knees, a foot pins me back down, trapping me. Panic floods my senses.
Please. Not again. I can’t—
A roar cuts through the bar, silencing everyone. “Hey, motherfucker!”
The weight on my back vanishes, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting something hard. Shouts echo around me as glass shatters to the floor.
“What the hell—”
Coughing, I roll onto my side just in time to see fucking Christian Totillo slam one of Arnie’s guys face-first into a table. Beer and liquor spray everywhere.
“Get the fuck off of him,” he snarls, dark hair wild around his shoulders.
One of the bikers lunges, but he ducks and drives his shoulder into the guy’s chest, sending him sprawling across the floor.
The other hesitates to retaliate just a second too long, but Christian doesn’t.
His boot catches the asshole in the leg, but not before a third dude jumps into the mix, arms swinging.
“Christian,” someone shouts from the pool tables. “Stop hitting people!”
“Tell them to stop hitting me first!” he shouts back, dodging another hit.
I'm off the floor in seconds, rushing to stop him because I can't just lie here while he gets his shit rocked over me. My arms wrap around his waist right as he takes a hit to the jaw, and I haul him back against my chest.
The moment his weight hits me, everything seems to halt. “Easy, hot shot,” I breathe, unable to help sliding my palm up over his racing heart. “Relax.”
Christian goes limp in my arms, almost as if his body is sighing in relief. It surprises me enough that I drop my lips against his hair, inhaling the scent of motor oil clinging to the strands. Fuck, I forgot what it feels like to just… hold someone. I don't want to let him go.
But Christian doesn't give me a choice.
He sobers quickly, muscles stiffening once again as he yanks himself from my grip.
And then the gorgeous asshole turns around to deck me right in the face.