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Fancy? No. I turn around to meet the smarmy eyes of John Calloway. Standing next to him in Madras shorts and a yellow polo is his lanky friend, who he’s toldallabout me; I can tell by the equally smarmy grin on his face, too.
“Fancy a fuck off,” I scoff before writing in a big tip on my restaurant receipt.
“Why so mad, Rubes?” John sips his beer. “My wife’s not here, so we have lots to catch up on.”
“No, you have an unhinged wife, and I have a life. I have nothing to say to you.”
“That’s fine.” He jeers, “Your mouth has better talents than talking.”
“And my fists would have a lot to say to your balls, too,” I smile, “if you had any.” I grab my purse and phone, jolting to my feet. “Now, step aside. Life is short and so is your dick and I have other places to be.”
He blocks my path. “You weren’t complaining about my dick in high school. You were moaning on it and begging for more, so we gave you two.”
“And yet,” I bat my eyelashes, “I was still unfulfilled. But, hey, that’s what I get for starting with the trial size.”
“Damn, she’s feisty.” John’s friend stares at my cleavage, barely revealed by my belted black shirtdress. “I bet she loves to have all that pride fucked right out of her.”
It’s instant, the spike of my pulse. The recognition of a predator. The pure disgust that floods my veins.
“Is your ass jealous of the amount of shit your mouth talks?” I try to push past them. “Because you couldn’t fuck a hole in the ground if you fell in it.”
But they don’t move, and for the first time, I’m thankful for my high heels. I stomp on John’s foot, stabbing my spiky heel into his Sperry loafer, and he yelps as I shove through their barrier.
In quick strides, I push through the bar’s double doors, my heart racing like my steps down the sidewalk. With a glance over my shoulder, my stomach knots, spotting them. They’re following me with lecherous scowls. They’re after me.
I whip out my phone, thumbing through my contacts for SPITTING COBRA. He’ll be furious with me, but I don’t care right now.
With one ring, Axel answers, “I’m right behind you.”
Relief floods me. “I’ve never been so thankful for your stalking.”
“There’s a graveyard on your left, just a half block up. Lure them there, and we’ll take care of it.”
“We?”
“Kings protect their queens, Wildfire. Don’t ever doubt it.”
A graveyard is always nearby in a city with over four hundred churches. This one is tucked behind an iron fence under a palm canopy, shadowing a neat row of weathered headstones dating back two hundred years.
“Kind of kinky,” John sneers with his friend, stalking behind me through the open iron gate, “but whatdoyasay, Rubes? A threesome in a cemetery? I’m game.”
With no fear, I turn and confront my predators. I let John approach. I let him reach out to fondle my breast before?—
“No, Calloway, you’re dead.”
They whip around to face the ferocious wall of Axel, seething with his vow, and …that’s not Grant. But it looks just like him. Maybe just a smidge cuter, sweeter, sexier.
Oh, that’s Jace—the big teddy bear who bashes skulls.
Good god, these brothers won gold medals in theOlympic gene pool. Their father might be the world’s deadliest asshole, but unfortunately, he’s got to look like agigachad.
Translation for all over fourteen: the ultimate man. Hot. Masculine. Muscular.
But they double down with the Mafia swagger, too. And I know how hot—sorry, Axel—howstunningtheir mother is.
Their beauty is distracting from the murderous show about to happen.
“What the…” John falters at the menacing sight of Axel. “What are you doing…” But he catches on quickly, throwing up his hands. “Hey, man. We were just having some fun with her.”