Page 90 of Property of Tacoma

Perfect.

“Hey, boys,” I purr, stopping in front of the bigger of the three and trailing a red-painted nail down his chest. “I think I’m lost. Can you help me?”

The taller one—his patch reads Dog—wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close. “Lost, huh? Well, maybe we can help you find what you’re looking for.”

His breath smells like cigarettes and cheap beer.

I lean closer, crooking a finger at the other two. “Why don’t you boys come closer? I don’t bite. Much.”

The shorter of the two, Hook, according to his patch, grins, stepping toward us.

My eyes drop to the third man’s cut.

Bull.

It takes all my control not to roll my eyes at the scrawny dude.

He eyes me for a second before finally deciding he’s not going to be left out.

Men.

Always led by their fucking dicks.

When he’s finally close enough, I strike.

I slam their heads together with all my strength, and they both stumble back in surprise. Yeah, assholes. That just happened.

Dropping to my knees, I whip out the knives tucked inside my boot.

Dog is standing frozen on the spot, his mouth hanging open as he tries to process what the fuck just happened. Before he can connect the dots that this isn’t about to be some kind of gang bang, I shove my knife in his belly and gut him like a fish.

His mouth opens and closes, blood bubbling between his lips as he looks down at his stomach split up the seams.

Moving on pure fucking adrenaline, I spin around quickly and rise, slashing my knives across the Dog and Bull’s throats in one clean swoop.

Blood sprays out in an arc, hot and sticky, across my face and chest.

Both men fall to the ground with heavy thuds.

My breaths are coming out in ragged pants, my chest heaving.

“Shit.”

“You good?” Tacoma asks, materializing beside me.

I glance over as Journey, Gator, and Bash grab hold of the three dead men and drag them to the side of the building out of sight.

I swipe at the blood on my cheek. “Yeah. Where are my guns?”

Bane hands me the backpack, and I slip it on. Tacoma hands me my weapons, looking at me like he wants to jump my bones right here and now.

I lick my lips, tasting copper, and his eyes drop to my mouth.

“You need to wait by your bike,” he says, his voice strained. “We’ll handle it from here.”

Like fucking hell; he’s not about to sideline me.

“I’m not some fragile bitch!” I snap, shoving past him.