Page 60 of Never Dance with the Devils

“Are you threatening me? I’m going to sue you,” he shouts, the words garbled around the blood and saliva (and possibly a loose tooth or two) in his mouth. “You all saw him attack me for no reason.” He looks around wildly for backup. “She deserved it. She told me to say it.”

“Threatening? I already did it, and I’ll do it again,” I vow. “I don’t care about your lawsuit and money bullshit, but keep talking about her. See how you feel about it when your spleen is leaking into your gut and you’re puking up sour bile.” He goes a little green at the idea. “What do you think? You have the balls to say something else to her? Try using your whole chest this time.”

I gesture to Kayla, who’s standing stock-still, frozen and staring at me with her nostrils flaring. She’s so pissed at me. She doesn’t handle things this way, especially business. And she definitely doesn’t want people stepping in to handle things for her, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t sit by and listen to this asshole degrade her like that. Fuck, they’re lucky it was me and not Riggs who got here first. Brent wouldn’t be whining in that case. He’d be out cold… or worse, which is still a possibility considering Riggs looks ready to dogpile on Brent if given half a chance. One punch from me is a wake-up call. One from Riggs is a guaranteed hospital trip for a softie like this guy.

“What are you doing?” Kayla finally manages to ask—well, demand—of me.

“Weasel dick deserved it,” I answer. “And you’re welcome.” I give her a jaunty gentlemanly bow, trying to bring everything down a notch.

“I should kick your ass,” she tells me.

“You can if you want.” I try giving her the tiniest, barest hint of a smile, checking to see exactly how angry with me she actually is.

“Ma’am, sir,” a manager says, interrupting us. “We cannot have this behavior here. Let me escort you out.”

“No, I want the police called,” Brent sputters.

“Go ahead. Tell them to come by anytime. I’m sure they’ll have lots to say after seeing the video footage of this whole exchange.” I point around the room, making sure Brent sees that there are several people with their phones held up to record. “I’m sure someone got the lead-up to me punching you. You know, when you called Kayla Harrington a cunt and I, Maddox Brooks, defended her.”

He pales, realizing that someone probably did get that part because Kayla standing over him definitely drew attention. And her name plus my name has a combined power he’s ill-prepared to deal with.

“This isn’t over,” he claims, sounding like a petulant child who’s not willing to give up yet even though he’s lost.

“Yes, it is,” Kayla declares before spinning smoothly to walk toward the restaurant’s front door, leaving not only Brent and David Jessup staring after her in shock, but Riggs and me too.

Quickly gathering my shit, I toss a couple of hundred-dollar bills on our table to more than cover our bill and follow her. Out front, she’s standing with the valet, whose eyes widen comically when he sees uscharging toward her. Both Riggs and I crowd into her, chests to her shoulders, and I could try to explain that away as an attempt for privacy, but the truth is, I need to make sure she’s okay. On some deeply visceral level, what just happened in that restaurant scared the fuck out of me. Not the punch—can’t call one hit a fight—but the look on that guy’s face as Kayla stood up to him. He would’ve hurt her, not professionally. Physically. He’s the type so used to getting his way that when he doesn’t, the resulting kickback is a violent eruption. Not the ‘he always seemed so nice’ sorts, but the ‘he was always on the edge of breaking’ kind. And Kayla was way too close to the danger zone.

But either she didn’t recognize that or she thinks she’s fucking Superwoman and is impervious to what could’ve happened, because she’s only mad at us. No, at me.

“What was that?” she demands, close enough that I feel the angry heat of her breath.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not one of these fancy suit-wearing guys who’ll sit there and do nothing while some asshole talks shit to you. You were handling it, and I sat back so you could, but there are limits and I’ll enforce them if need be.”

Riggs doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to for me to know he feels the same way.

Her eyes narrow sharply. “And if I tell you not to?”

It’s an important question. Maybe one of the most important things she’s ever asked me given the intensity in her blue eyes. Deciding honesty is the best policy, I say, “Depends on the reason, but I’d probably do it anyway.” Her brow arches sharply, letting me know that was the wrong answer. But I’m not giving in that easily.Trying a different angle, I ask, “If it had been one of your new sisters-in-law catching that bullshit, you would have done what I did, but worse. And do you really wish I hadn’t made that fucker bleed?”

I gesture behind me, not to the restaurant but to Brent, who is probably inside still pleading his case and talking shit about Kayla to anyone who’ll listen. The idea makes me want to go back in there and hit him again.

She presses her lips into a thin line, and I’m expecting her to say that I should’ve acted more civilized. I can see the whole argument playing out in her mind. Hell, I can see it in mine too.

I don’t hit people casually. That’s not who I am. Even on the ice, I’m the skill guy, not the enforcer, leading the team for the past two seasons in least amount of time spent in the penalty box. And in my personal life, I believe in talking out your differences and removing oneself from situations when things are going too far. All that enlightenment went right out the window when Brent spat out that hatred at Kayla. I wouldn’t change what I did even if I could, and I’ll stand strong against any suggestion that I should’ve handled it differently.

After one more held breath, she exhales as the tension eases from her shoulders. “No. What I’m mostly mad about is that you did it before I could. You’re right, if they’d said that to Luna or Riley, I’d have blood on my hands. Literally.”

The image of Kayla punching, not slapping but actually punching, Brent flashes through my mind and I grin at the sheer awesomeness of it. “Well shit, now I wish I would’ve waited too. If I’d known that was a possibility, I could’ve held off a few seconds longer,” I joke, holdingup my finger and thumb a skinny half-inch apart. “That would’ve been hot as fuck and probably more embarrassing to him too. This way, he’s gonna brag about taking a punch from The Maddox Brooks.” I glance down at my hand, noting that my knuckles aren’t even red since that guy’s jaw was like hitting warm butter.

Kayla shakes her head, but she can’t hide her growing smile. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Nothing a little blow job won’t heal.”

We’re teasing in some ways, but tonight highlighted a deep line in the sand, where we’ve both made our positions known. It’s another thread weaving into the connection between us. One where no one has to compromise or change their core values. We accept the others’ stance and filter that into our future decisions. I won’t always be the savior running into the fray for Kayla, but this time, I did. Next time, it might be her saving my ass. Or Riggs saving ours. Or, most likely, both Kayla and I saving his.

I glance at Riggs, noting he’s been eerily quiet throughout this exchange, which is very unlike him. He looks up from his phone, informing us, “If anyone cares, I’ve already found the video of that interaction on TikTok and posted Brent’s name and the company’s name. They’re eating him alive in the comments.” Riggs holds his phone out so we can see. “Think he’ll regret it now?”

For a monster of a guy who could’ve done some real damage, Riggs played it smart, using his brain more than his fists this time. Smarter than me for sure. The irony of the flip-flopping of our typical roles isn’t lost on me. I went physical to protect him, and he went strategic to save me.