Page 2 of Hell Bent (Portland Devils #5)

The other woman, the blonde, was a knockout—cheekbones, model body, and thin, like the guy had said, except in the breast department—but then, so were the two women who’d come over from the bar in hopes of a free dinner and whatever else they’d been looking for.

A few years ago, that would’ve suited me fine, but I wasn’t very social these days, and besides, how flattering is it to be sought out for your job and not your wonderful self?

Your future is yours to create, I told myself, but it wasn’t necessarily comforting, because that was exactly the problem. That I was four months into my second NFL season, and I was about the oldest near-rookie ever. Thirty-one, in fact. At soccer, I wasn’t a rookie. I was a washout.

I trust my body. I trust my mind. I trust my resilience. I trust my honesty. Back to the team hotel well before eleven, read a little, and bed. That was how you determined your own fate. It was all about the habits.

I was telling myself that when the asshole said, “Where’s the valet?

I thought this place was supposed to have service,” to which the woman in red answered, when nobody else did, “Presumably getting somebody else’s car.

” She inclined her head at me in a regal sort of way, and I smiled a bit despite myself and inclined my head back and didn’t mention the Uber.

“From where?” the guy said. “Siberia?”

“It’s San Francisco,” the brunette answered. “Not a whole lot of parking spots.”

The blonde burst out suddenly with, “I can’t find my phone. Shoot. I think I left it in there. Was it in the ladies’ room? Did I have it when I came back from there, Alix?” That one was directed at the brunette.

“Less talking, more getting,” the asshole said. “Hurry up, though, unless you want to get home by yourself.”

“I thought I was driving,” the blonde said.

“What?” the asshole said. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been drinking, she means,” the brunette—Alix—said. The late-November chill had to be hitting her, because all she had on over that dress was one of those short, fuzzy jackets that barely hit a woman’s waist, but she wasn’t shivering, whereas the blonde was hunched into her coat.

“I’m fine to drive,” the asshole said. “Hurry up and get your phone, Sabrina.”

Alix was tapping on her phone. “Uber,” she told the guy she was with, who’d barely said a word all through dinner. Not one of nature’s alpha males. “You can share it if you like, Sabrina.”

“What the hell?” the asshole said. “I said I’m driving. I drove us here, and I’ll take us home.”

“I don’t drink and drive,” Alix said. Her voice was low. Throaty, I’d call it. “Or drive with anybody who does.” She didn’t say “Sorry,” the way most women would have, just put it out there.

“That’s—” the asshole started to say, when there was a yelp from the blonde, who’d gone down in a heap. “Slippery,” she gasped from down on the ground. “Icy, or something.”

“It is not icy,” the asshole said. “It’s San Francisco. Man, you can’t even walk.” He laughed. I was pretty tired of that laugh.

The other man just stood there like the kind of guy whose reaction time is measured in seconds, so I took a few steps and put down a hand for the blonde.

I wasn’t quick enough, though, because the brunette—Alix—was already hauling her to her feet, saying, “It’s got to be in the thirties out here.

Newsflash, Brian. Women’s heels have fewer points of contact with the ground, and you’re tipped forward, off balance. Are you OK, Sabrina?”

“I—think so,” the blonde said. “My ankle, though …”

“I’m going in to look for your phone,” Alix said. “After that, I’ll call for an Uber,” she told the stand-and-stare guy, who I guessed was her date. “You probably want to check her ankle, Brian.”

“And do what?” he asked. The other guy was still just standing there.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Get her an elastic bandage, if she needs it? Ice packs? You’re supposed to be a take-charge guy. She’s hurt. Take charge.”

“Anastasia,” the date said. Warningly, or as a rebuke. It pissed me off.

“Don’t call me that. I’ve told you I don’t like it.” Her voice was still low, but it was firm.

The asshole was starting to talk, but I’d had enough. I asked the blonde, “Do you mind if I look at it?”

“Oh.” She looked at her date as if for permission. “Sure, I guess. I’d?—”

“I mind,” the asshole said. “What the hell?”

“It’s not your ankle,” I told him. “And she said yes.” I crouched down and palpated it, and felt her wince.

Moved it gently, and felt her wince more.

“I don’t feel a break,” I said, “but I’m guessing you sprained it.

Definitely an elastic bandage and ice packs.

Elevate it, too. And if it’s bad in the morning, get it X-rayed to make sure. ”

“For falling off her shoes,” the asshole said.

Headlights. Not my Uber, but the valet pulling in at the wheel of a Porsche.

He hopped out, and a couple who’d been standing in the doorway, out of the wind, headed to the curb.

The valet took his tip, but before he’d managed to say, “Thank you, sir,” the asshole was pushing his own ticket into the guy’s hand and saying, “Here. Put some speed on it, would you? I’ve been standing here half the night. ”

My Uber was pulling up just as the Porsche was pulling out, but somehow, I wasn’t getting in. Maybe because the brunette came out of the restaurant, held up the phone, and said, “Ta-da. It was on the seat in the booth. Probably fell out of your purse.”

“Oh, thanks,” the blonde said.

“How’s your ankle?” the brunette asked.

“Sprained,” I said. “At least. Rest, ice, compression, elevation.”

“Oh,” the blonde said. “I don’t?—”

I said, “I’ll take you to get them,” and held open the door of the Uber. “Get in.” I had time, so why not? It wasn’t getting involved. It was a quick detour on the way back to the hotel.

She hesitated, and the brunette—Alix, or Anastasia, or whoever—said, “She’s not going to get into a car with a stranger. Has your life actually been this devoid of women?”

I didn’t say that generally, women invited themselves into my car. I said, for some reason, “It’s an Uber. My power to abduct anybody from it is probably limited. But fine. Come with us.”

“At which point,” she said, “there will be two women in a car with a strange man. ”

“Yes,” I said, “but one of them can so clearly take care of herself.” At which she smiled. First time I’d seen it, and it made that soft face look sweeter than ever. Odd, because she seemed plenty tough to me. “Your boyfriend can come too, if he likes,” I added.

“Look, man,” the quiet guy said to the other guy. “I’ll, uh … I should probably go with the girls. We could get another Uber. I mean, a different one.”

“Like hell,” the asshole said. “I drove us here, and I’ll drive us home.”

I waited. There was no reason for me to involve myself in any of this.

Alix decided it. She told her date, “I’m cold. Time to go. Come with us or don’t, but tell me which.”

What did he do? Looked at the asshole again.

Alix said, “Fine,” grabbed the door of my Uber, and said, “Come on, Sabrina. Let’s go with the nice man and find a store that’s open late.

” Upon which she climbed inside—that was a very good ass—and Sabrina climbed in beside her after one last look at the asshole.

Kind of like kids cutting class. Like an adventure. I wasn’t in the market for adventures, but still.