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Ainsley leaned over the counter, her chin resting on her palm, simply to prop her head up. She was tired as shit and bored out of her fucking mind.

The tavern had been dead most of the night. So dead, she’d considered closing early.

The only problem with doing that was, it meant going home, and she’d rather stay here with the one lonely soul sitting in the corner, nursing a beer, than spend any more time than necessary with Mick.

He was usually in bed by the time she closed for the night, so she could have the living room to herself, watching whatever she wanted on TV, chilling for a few hours before heading to her own bedroom to sleep until eleven. She was a nocturnal creature. Always had been. Her ex, Jagger, used to swear she was part vampire.

Her work and sleep schedule suited Ainsley just fine, because it limited her unpleasant interactions with Mick to a couple hours every morning. Which was two hours too long for her.

She rubbed her eyes wearily, her gaze drifting to the door despite her best efforts to stop looking.

Coulton had shown up two Sundays in a row, so when he didn’t come this past Sunday, she’d been more disappointed than she wanted to admit to herself. The tavern was closed on Mondays, so she had spent all yesterday running errands and telling herself she didn’t give a shit that he hadn’t shown.

He’d asked her out, she’d turned him down, and he’d moved on.

Good riddance.

She didn’t have the time or desire to date. Because men were douchebags.

Usually repeating that mantra worked for her, but she was having a hard time shoe-horning Coulton into the same category as guys like Jagger, Tiger, and Montgomery. Or her dad or Eli, she mentally added.

She rolled her eyes when she thought about her brother. He’d been absent lately, something that never boded well because he only disappeared when he was losing money at the track, stoned out of his mind, or hiding from someone stupid enough to loan him money.

Which meant when he returned—and he always returned—he was strung out, smelly, and mean.

Too many times in her life, she had wished he would stop coming back, and then she’d feel guilty for thinking that. She prided herself on trying to be a good person overall, but whenever she thought about Eli, her karma took a serious hit.

She glanced at the door again, and then at the time on her phone. Two hours to closing.

Fuck this shit.

She walked over to the lone patron. “I’m closing up early tonight.”

The guy, Rat, was a regular, though she didn’t know much more about him than his name fit his appearance. His nose long and pointy, his mustache limited to a few whiskers, his eyes small, beady, and shifty, and he was always three days overdue for a shower, his greasy hair clinging to his equally greasy forehead. He tended to drink alone, and he only had one expression—resting bitch face.

She half expected him to argue, because it was two hours earlier than the usual time, but then his eyes darted around the tavern and he merely shrugged, reaching into his pocket and tossing a few bucks on the table rather than handing them to her. Even though she was standing right next to him.

She sighed, picking up the cash—which covered his bill, with none left over for a tip—and grabbed his glass. She turned, intent on following Rat to the door to twist the lock, but as dictated by Murphy’s Law, two men walked in just as the other guy left.

“We’re closing early,” she said, meeting them before they could make it more than a few steps inside. Now that she had her nose pointed toward home, there was no going back. All she had to do was endure a couple of shitty remarks from her dad on the way in, then retreat to her bedroom. She was tired enough that even her lumpy mattress felt inviting.

“We’re not here to drink,” said one of the guys, the bigger of the two.

“Well, that’s good. Because you’re not drinking.” Ainsley had spent so much of her life in this tavern that she’d pretty much stopped looking at the guys who came in. Because, with the exception of Thor, they were all a dime a dozen.

However, these two didn’t exactly fit the bill of a Mick’s Tavern drinker any more than Coulton did. Most of her guys were older, no strangers to long work hours, poor diets, and hard manual labor.

These guys—Mario and Luigi, she dubbed them—were worse than that, with their wifebeaters, low-slung, loose jeans, thick gold chains, and enough product in their dark hair that a hurricane wouldn’t mess it up. They were also younger, closer to her age, though she didn’t recognize them from school, which either meant they’d moved into the area, or they’d dropped out early in their educational careers.

Regardless of where they’d started, they were currently standard, run-of-the-mill thugs as far as Cherry Hill was concerned.

Ainsley started to skirt by them, anxious to get behind the bar to grab her bat. She didn’t like the way Mario was salivating like she was a juicy steak. But Luigi, the smaller of the two guys, stuck his hand out, grasping her upper arm.

She scowled and shrugged it off. “Excuse you,” she snapped. Ainsley had learned a long time ago that the worst thing a person could do was show fear.

“Looking for Eli,” Mario said to her tits.

Ainsley rolled her eyes as she lifted her arms, gesturing around the empty tavern. “He’s not here.”

“No shit,” Luigi said hotly, not appreciating her sarcasm. “That guy is slipperier than snot.”

“Not my problem.” She didn’t need what was happening here spelled out. These idiots had clearly loaned Eli money and now they were here hoping to collect. Fuck that.

Mario rubbed his pockmarked chin. “That’s where you’re wrong. Eli owes us money. Thousand bucks. Said we could collect it here.”

Ainsley laughed. “Don’t think so.”

Luigi scowled. “Wasn’t fucking asking.” He pointed toward the cash register. “So get your ass back there and get our money.”

Ainsley didn’t have anywhere near a thousand dollars in her cash register, and given the way Mario was eyeballing her, she got the sense he was hoping she’d come up shy.

Which left her with precious few options. None of them good.

She sized them up again, fairly certain they weren’t carrying guns. No bulges beneath their clothing and nowhere to stash them in their pants.

Ainsley pretended to play along, because her bat was under the register and fighting her way out of here was the only option she could stomach if they decided the few measly bucks she had weren’t enough.

Begging for mercy most likely wouldn’t change the outcome.

She crossed the bar and started to walk behind the counter, but Luigi grabbed her again.

“No funny business,” he warned her, flashing a switchblade.

Okay, cool. So no gun. Not that a knife was much better. Luigi slipped the knife back in his pocket. Clearly, he and Mario were confident in their abilities to knock her around without weapons until she gave them what they wanted.

Ainsley shook her arm loose again. “Go to hell,” she muttered, as she stepped in front of the register. With one hand, she opened the drawer, while the other drifted lower.

She’d just managed to wrap her hand around her bat when Luigi stepped next to her, looking into the register.

“That’s it?” he asked, grabbing the handful of twenties she had and stuffing them in his pocket. “Fuck, man. That’s not even two hundred bucks. Where’s the rest?”

She smirked. “Look around, asshole.” She gestured to the empty tavern once more, distracting him while she got a better grip on her bat. She was trying to figure out her game plan because, unfortunately, the space behind the bar was too tight. She wouldn’t have enough room to rear back and swing properly.

“Guess you’re gonna have to pay up another way,” Mario said, licking his lips.

Yep. That was what she thought.

It was now or never. All she had going for her was the element of surprise, but given she didn’t have enough money to pay Eli’s debt, it wasn’t like she had any other options.

She quickly took a couple of steps back as she raised the bat. Without time to aim, she swung too low, catching Luigi on the meaty part of his upper arm. Nowhere near hard enough to hurt him but plenty hard enough to piss him off.

He reached out and wrapped his hand around the thick end of her bat, planning to wrestle it away from her. Ainsley had zero intention of letting go, so she tugged back as she kicked upward, managing to nail the asshole right in the nuts.

Luigi dropped to his knees, cursing a blue streak. “Motherfucking cunt!” he said, gasping. “Gonna pay for that.”

While he tried to pull his balls out of his stomach, Ainsley twisted, swinging her bat once more as Mario tried to rush her from behind, circling around the bar and climbing over the counter to hem her in. This time, she aimed higher, cracking the bat against the side of the man’s head. He howled in pain.

She hadn’t hurt either of them enough, so time was not on her side. She tried to leap over the counter, and almost made it, but at the last minute, Mario grabbed her ankle, throwing her off-kilter. She hung over the bar, head pointed toward the floor. She was forced to drop the bat in her attempt to grab the edge of the counter as he tightened his grip, pulling her toward him. She couldn’t let him drag her back behind the bar because she’d be trapped—without her weapon.

Ainsley kicked wildly with her free leg, landing a couple times as Mario grunted in pain. Glancing over her shoulder, she aimed the next kick, clipping him in the jaw. His grip loosened, and unfortunately, without him holding her, gravity took over and she flew forward, crashing into a couple of stools before landing hard on floor on the opposite side of the counter.

Her right arm took the brunt of the fall, the pain enough that her vision went gray and bile rose in her throat. It took her a few seconds to recover enough to move again.

Those seconds were too many. She tried to rise but failed as Mario leapt over the bar, landing next to her. He reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her to her knees, her scalp burning.

“You’re going to pay for that, you stupid bitch.” Mario released her hair, but only so he could back that threat up with a hard kick to her stomach.

Ainsley doubled over, coughing hard, certain she was going to throw up. Even as she fought to breathe, her eyes flew over the floor. If she could just find her bat…

After this, she was buying a gun. They’d never gotten one for the tavern because in his heyday, Mick had been a big, mean son of a bitch, who never needed more than his fists to keep the drunks in line. Ainsley hated guns, but she felt her stance on that changing with each passing moment.

Luigi rounded the bar, his hand still cupping his crotch, his expression pure fury as he lifted his arm and backhanded her, the side of her face scorching as if she’d pressed it to fire.

“We were just gonna take the money,” Mario lied, grabbing her hair once more, tugging her toward him and out of reach of her bat. “But now, we’re gonna collect interest.”

He grabbed a handful of her T-shirt, ripping it in his attempt to pull it over her head.

Ainsley hurt all over, but none of that pain stopped her from fighting with everything she had. She kicked and punched, gouged, and pinched, managing to get free, though she didn’t expect that to last long.

“Jesus Christ.” Luigi, who was still covering his balls lest she nail him again, yelled at Mario. “Fucking grab her already!”

Mario was just reaching for her when the tavern door open. “Get the fuck out!” he screamed, without looking at whoever had walked in. “Bar’s closed.”

The door shut with a slam, and Ainsley sent up a prayer that whoever had cut and run would at least call the cops. Though even if they did, they would arrive too late.

Mario had just managed to grab one of her arms, his hold tighter than a vise, when she heard Luigi yelp.

One minute, Luigi was standing in front of her, the next, he was laying on the ground halfway across the tavern in the middle of the splintered remains of a table.

Ainsley blinked rapidly, blinded by tears of pain and trying to figure out what the hell happened, when Mario pushed her forward roughly, using her as some sort of human shield. She bounced off a rock-hard wall of muscle, but the hands that touched her now didn’t hurt. They were gentle.

“Call the police, Ainsley.”

She looked up—and nearly sobbed when she saw Coulton standing there. His gaze, however, was locked on Mario, who was standing behind her.

Coulton carefully set her to the side, and then he moved forward with the force of a wrecking ball. He picked up Mario, swinging him like a rag doll as he tossed him next to Luigi, who was either unconscious or playing dead.

Mario slowly clamored to one knee, attempting to rise, but Coulton didn’t give him the chance, kicking the man in the gut the same way Mario had done to her.

Ha! Fucking karma, asshole.

That was when Luigi moved, grabbing Coulton’s ankle in an effort to pull him off his feet. He almost succeeded as Coulton stumbled back a few steps.

Both men used that to their advantage, quickly rising and lifting their fists.

“You’re gonna fucking die,” Luigi threatened, reaching into his pocket for the knife.

Assholes like these two enjoyed beating on women, as if crushing someone who was physically smaller and weaker somehow made them big, tough men, but when it came to fighting Coulton, they were prepared to gang up and cheat, using their weapons against an unarmed man.

“Fucking cowards.” Ainsley reached down, grasping her bat and screaming like a banshee as she charged. She heard a crack after she swung, and Luigi’s howl of pain as his hand dropped the knife, his arm hanging uselessly at a strange angle.

“My fucking arm!” he cried out.

Coulton had moved at the same time, throwing a punch at Mario that took the man down in one. Petey had asked Coulton if he’d done any boxing. If he hadn’t, he was missing his calling.

Mario shook his head, trying to clear his vision, twisting over to his hands and knees, rapidly crawling toward the door.

Luigi beat him there, shoving his partner out of the way with his foot, in his haste to get away. Ainsley chased him, her bat raised above her head.

Mario scrambled to his feet, racing out just a step behind Luigi, who was cradling his broken arm and cussing loudly. “Crazy fucking cunt!”

Ainsley had every intention of chasing the motherfuckers down the street, but a strong arm banded around her waist, holding her back.

“Down, wildcat,” Coulton said, reaching to take the bat from her.

She struggled briefly, adrenaline coursing through her veins, until Coulton placed his lips next to her ear. “Shhh. It’s over now,” he said softly. “It’s over.”

It took at least a dozen times of him repeating those same words, “It’s over,” for it to finally sink in.

She stilled in his arms, soaking in the strength and warmth of his embrace for as long as she dared.

When was the last time anyone had held her like this?

Wrong question.

Had anyone ever held her like this?

Sadly, the answer to that question came easily.

No.

Ainsley had lived an entire lifetime painfully short on hugs. Which explained why it was so difficult for her to push Coulton’s arm down and step away.

She turned around, ready to thank him. He’d saved her from… She couldn’t let herself think the word, so she swallowed it down, not letting her thoughts drift beyond the fact that he’d saved her.

He’d been gentle as he held her, but when she faced him, his expression immediately morphed to one of anger.

Ainsley took a step back, until he said, “You need to go to the hospital. You’re hurt.”

She took mental stock, trying to pinpoint the painful places. Her scalp was tender, her lip was throbbing, and her arm hurt like hell. Those were the sharpest pains. Everything else had receded to a dull, throbbing ache.

“I’m okay. It’s not that bad.”

“Not bad!” Coulton said hotly. “You’re bleeding.”

She reached up and winced when she felt her split lip. “Fucking asshole. What is it with guys? Why do you all think it’s okay to backhand a woman?”

“All?” Coulton froze. “Have you been hit before?”

She rolled her eyes. “What part of ‘I’ve lived in Cherry Hill my whole life’ did you miss?”

He leaned toward her. “Who hit you?” he asked darkly.

She tilted her head, trying to come to grips with what she was seeing. The man looked seriously ready to go on the warpath. On the two occasions he’d sat at the bar, they had talked, and he’d been super chill.

Well, apart from his showdown with Eli, but Eli tended to bring out the worst in everyone. It was her brother’s one true talent.

Coulton’s desire to take on anyone who tried to hurt her was one of the things that had captured her attention, despite her efforts to put the pretty man out of her head. It was hard, because no one—and she meant no one —had ever tried to protect her before.

“I’ve been mugged a time or three,” she responded. “And my dad is no fucking prince.”

Suddenly, it felt as if the temperature in the tavern had dropped a good fifty degrees.

“Your dad backhanded you?”

She shrugged. “Plenty of times. Not sure if you’ve noticed or not, but I’m kind of a smart-ass.”

Coulton drew in a slow breath through his nose, his eyes dark with an anger that should have scared her…but instead made her horny as fucking hell.

Quite the feat considering she’d almost just been…

Nope. Not thinking that.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “No. You’re not. I’ve got some bumps and bruises and that’s it. All they’ll do at the hospital is give me a three-hundred-dollar Tylenol and a seventy-dollar ice pack. No thanks. I’ve got that shit at home.”

Coulton didn’t like her answer. “If I take you home, will someone take care of you?” he asked, his voice so low, she had to lean closer to hear. God, at this rate, she’d be pressed against him again.

She laughed, then winced again because her lip hurt like a bitch. “Oh yeah, Coulton. Mick will kiss all my boo-boos, make me hot chocolate with marshmallows, and then tuck me into bed.”

Ainsley’s second language was English.

Sarcasm, her first.

“What’s really going to happen when you get home?”

Ainsley closed her eyes, too weary to continue this conversation. “Mick will want to know if the assholes got the money, and he’ll be pissed at me when I tell him they did,” she said, also angry that they’d gotten away with the cash. They really needed the money. Mick had stupidly decided to do a cash-out refinance on the tavern when the medical bills got to be too much, the short-term solution leaving them even deeper under water, thanks to the high interest rate.

“They came in to rob you?”

She narrowed her eyes, her anger toward Eli resurfacing. “Not really. They were trying to get me to pay off my brother’s debts, and fun fact…there wasn’t enough money in the register.”

“Your brother gonna be home?”

Ainsley got a sick pleasure out of the murderous way Coulton asked that. Like he was hoping to keep the night’s brawling going.

“Probably not, considering he sent those guys to me to pay his debt. He’ll lay low. Either at a friend’s house, or maybe he’ll find some woman stupid enough to sleep with him. Won’t see him anytime soon because he’s a coward.”

“He sent those men here,” he said, no question in his voice. She got the sense he was repeating those words simply to make them sink in.

“I was getting things under control,” she lied, uncertain if she was trying to convince him or console herself.

Coulton pierced her with a look that told her she most definitely wasn’t getting anything under control.

She lowered her head, looking at the floor. “What was happening…” She paused, her brain skipping over how closely she’d come to being sexually assaulted. “It was going to happen, Coulton. I didn’t have enough money to pay them.”

“Jesus,” he muttered. “They were going to?—”

“But they didn’t,” she cut him off, unable to hear that word.

He reached for his cell.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling the cops,” he replied.

She put her hand over his, pushing his phone down. “No. They don’t come here. Besides, the guys got some money. I doubt they’ll come back after the ass-whooping we just handed them.”

She wished she could believe that was true, but the fact was, they were still shy about eight hundred dollars and now had an ax to grind.

“Ainsley. You were assaulted and robbed. You need to file a report.”