Page 22

It’s been a month since St. Patrick’s Day. The brawl at my bar landed me with a hefty fine for overcrowding, and a few of my men got hauled in on old warrants. Typical. We’ll handle it, though. We always do. The legal side of things is just another bump in the road, and there is nothing we can’t smooth over with enough time and cash.

Outside, the air still carries a cool, crisp edge, spring clinging on, but there’s a warmth building, like summer is hovering just out of reach, ready to break through any day now.

I’m heading downtown, weaving through traffic, on my way to a meeting with a promotional company. I need to sort out getting a regular band to play at the bar. Normally, we’d throw up a sign, word would spread, and someone always knows a guy in a band who’s looking for a gig. But after the last three acts bombed—full-on disasters—I’m not taking any chances. I’ve had enough of shitty music that gets the crowd riled up in the worst way. The last thing I need is my bar torn up again because some tone-deaf wannabes can’t hold the room together.

Pulling off the road, I kick out the bike stand and kill the engine. The instant the Harley quiets, the sharp sound of an argument cuts through the air.

“Fuck you, Tony!” a woman with long dark hair yells at a guy.

“Be fucking reasonable. It’s a job. You told me to get a job, and I did!” He throws his hands up in the air.

The last thing I want or need is to get in the middle of an argument between a guy and his old lady. Still, my curiosity gets the better of me. I swing off the bike and walk toward them, keeping a bit of distance. The tension between them is thick enough to choke on, and I’m not eager to become a target for either of them. From where I stand, I can see the guy’s jaw clench while the woman’s hands ball into fists. “You call playing some shitty bar a job?”

“You think you can do better, princess? Well, have at it. I quit!”

Glancing up, I see her standing there, hands on her hips, but his words stop her cold. She’s staring down at the pavement, shaking her head, lips moving like she’s saying something under her breath. From here, I can’t make out what she’s saying, but I sure as hell see the guy throw his hands in the air, glance up at the sky, and then clench his fist.

Fuck.

I’m no knight in shining armor, but hitting a woman? That’s a dog act through and through. Before I even have time to think, I’m already moving, cutting back across the street. A car honks, tires screech, but I’m not stopping.

I point straight at the guy. “You!” My voice cuts through the noise. His fist is still raised, and now they are staring at me. “I’ll fucking drop you if you lay a finger on her.”

“Whiskey?” Her voice slices through the tension, and I recognize her immediately. It’s the hellcat from the bar brawl.

“You know this fucker?” the guy snaps, his eyes darting between us.

I square up, my gaze locked on him. “Do we have a problem?” My tone is low, but there’s a warning in it.

He glances at her, then back at me, throwing his hands up as he backs away. “You can fucking have her. She’s not worth it.” His words drip with venom, and just before he turns, he spits on the ground, storming off like the coward he is.

With her hands still on her hips, she throws her head back and laughs, the sound full of mischief. “You’ve got perfect timing.”

“Seems like I do,” I reply, watching her closely.

She’s wearing a skin-tight, glittery black top that clings to her curves, jeans that fit like a second skin, and that familiar leather jacket from the night of the brawl. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and her striking green eyes sparkle with amusement, like she’s enjoying the way this whole thing is playing out.

“You know I didn’t need your help.” Her tone is confident, not a question, just a flat-out statement of fact.

I cock my head to the side, taking her in from head to toe. “If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have bothered,” I reply, a smirk tugging at my lips.

“Well, I’m glad we got that sorted,” she says with a quick smile, turning on her heel like she’s about to walk away.

Panic hits me for a split second. I don’t want her to leave just yet.

Before I think it through, I blurt out, “Can I buy you a coffee?”

She glances over her shoulder, lips curving in amusement. “I don’t drink the stuff.”

“Coke?” I offer, trying again.

She shakes her head, her long hair tumbling forward, framing her face. “Poison in a glass.”

“Give a guy a break.”

“Your patch says president, and something tells me you’ve had plenty of coffee breaks,” she teases, a sly grin playing on her lips.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Perks of the job, I guess.”

She laughs again, loud and unfiltered, and I can’t help but like it—there’s something real about how she lets it out. “I’ve gotta go. But I’m sure, Whiskey, I’ll see you again.”

“I still don’t know your name,” I call after her, hoping to catch something more.

She glances back over her shoulder, a teasing glint in her eyes. “I know.” With a quick wink, she turns and keeps walking, her figure disappearing down the street like she owns the whole damn thing.

Whoever she is, she’s right—I don’t lack female company, but something about her has me intrigued. With a shake of my head, I turn away, refocusing on the task at hand. I reach into my pocket and pull out the crumpled piece of paper with the address scribbled on it, squinting to make sure I read it right before continuing on my way.

I think fate will throw us together again if it’s with the hellcat.