“It might come to that,” he admitted. “But you guys don’t need to get involved. It’s not your fight.”
“Like hell it isn’t,” Dylan shot back. “Your fights are our fights. Besides, I wouldn’t mind giving that asshole a warning of my own. Considering what happened last night, I’m feeling a tad invested in Jen’s safety too.”
Seth’s head swiveled from Cash to Dylan, and then he started to laugh. “Son of a bitch. You tag-teamed the LT’s sister?”
“No,” they said in unison.
“Wow. Just…wow.” Seth doubled over, gripping his side as he laughed. When he finally settled down, he sent a mocking look in Cash’s direction. “You realize you went from begging us to help you not screw her, to screwing her, to screwing her with Dylan. What’s next? Can me and Texas join in next time?”
Jackson’s slow drawl joined the mix. “Yeah, can we? I still haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the mysterious Jen.”
Cash glared at Dylan, who seemed to regret opening this can of worms. “No one is joining in. But if you’re serious about coming along, I’d appreciate the backup. I haven’t met this guy, so I don’t know what to expect.”
“Where are we going?” Seth tossed his wet trunks in the back of the Jeep.
“The Gaslamp Tavern.”
Seth headed for the driver’s door with his badass swagger, while Jackson walked around to the passenger side. “We’ll meet you there.”
After the Jeep sped out of the lot, Cash glowered at Dylan. “Did you have to drop that last night comment? I didn’t exactly want those two knowing about the threesome with Jen.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Clearly. Way to blow it.”
“Actually, I blew you,” Dylan said glibly.
They looked at each other for several long moments.
And then they burst out laughing.
When the laughter died down, Cash shot his friend a somber look. “We cool? You’re not going to get all weird around me now, are you?”
“Naah, we’re cool.”
Relief fluttered through him. “Good.”
Dylan smirked. “You were actually worried, huh? What, you thought I’d morph into a teenage girl and never talk to you again?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Aw, you love me, don’t ya? You would’ve missed your bestest fwend ever.”
Cash gave him the finger. “Get in the car, asshole.”
Fifteen minutes later, Cash slowed the car in front of the Tavern. There was no meter parking outside the bar, so he had to drive to the next block to find a spot. He and Dylan strode down the sidewalk a few minutes later, scanning both sides of the road for Seth’s Jeep.
“There they are.” Dylan shoved his fingers in his mouth and whistled to get Seth and Jackson’s attention.
The duo jogged across the street and met them at the front door of the Tavern. The after-work happy hour was in full swing when the four men entered the bar. Cash took the lead, pausing at the edge of the main room to search the crowd for lone male patrons. All he saw were groups of three or four, clad in business attire and chatting over beers and cocktails.
His gaze shifted toward the counter, the haven for single males. Out of the dozen people occupying the tall stools, most were older men who wore weathered, tired looks as they silently nursed their drinks. One man seemed around the right age, but his gleaming shaved head and plethora of tattoos, including one circling his thick neck, told Cash the guy was no investment banker.
He continued his inspection. Bingo. A man in his late twenties or early thirties sat at the far end of the counter. He had a slick look to him—perfectly styled brown hair, clean-shaven face, expensive Rolex on his wrist. He wore a black suit, no tie, with an open-collar white shirt. Cash couldn’t deny the guy was handsome, but something about those sharp clothes and perpetual smirk rubbed him the wrong way.
“Nine o’clock,” he murmured.
The others followed his gaze. “That him?” Seth murmured back.
“Let’s go and find out.”
They started walking, drawing uneasy glances from several of the other patrons. The female bartender lifted her head at their approach, her eyes lighting with unconcealed approval, but something about their expressions must have triggered her internal alarm, because as they got closer, the appreciation in her eyes faded into wariness.
Her concern didn’t surprise Cash. The four of them made a formidable sight. Six-feet-plus, two hundred pounds of muscle, and in military-issued shitkickers, to boot.
They moved toward Mr. Slick the way they moved on an op—with single-minded focus and a helluva lot of aggression.
The man looked startled when he noticed them. He set down the wine glass he’d been sipping. “Can I help you?” he asked coolly.
Cash instantly recognized that gravelly voice. “You Brendan?” he said, equally cool.
“Who’s asking?”
“My friends and I were hoping to have a little chat with you.”