Maddox caught her attention after he’d yanked on his jeans and started to move with shirt and boots in his hand toward Sixx, stopping close, looking at her and asking her like he didn’t care about her answer.
“Work for you?”
Not willing herself to do it, but glad she did, she lifted her hand, laid it lightly on his chest and stared right into his eyes.
“Inspired,” she whispered.
He glared at her for a beat before his black eyes melted. He lifted his free hand, curled his fingers around the back of hers at his chest, squeezed them lightly, dipped his chin then let her go.
Her hand dropped, and Maddox moved away.
Apparently aftercare was Molly’s territory because she was leaning so heavily into D, both arms around his middle, his arm slung across her shoulders as they made their way to Sixx after D got dressed and Maddox had packed them up that it looked like she was holding him up.
D met her eyes like a dare. “Told you I’d buy it.”
“You could give a class on taking an ass thrashing,” she quipped. “In a variety of ways.”
His eyes—weirdly cold and remote for the man she’d known somewhat meaningfully if only briefly, but had come to like a great deal—roamed her face.
Fortunately, he found what he needed there, his lips quirked in a shadow of his impudent grin, and he said, “Your last martini was on Mad. Your next is on me.”
“How about my round?” she asked.
D looked genuinely offended.
“A woman buy a drink?” he queried, like that concept was foreign to him, foreign and repulsive.
“I do have money,” she replied.
“That doesn’t happen on our watch,” Maddox chimed in, joining them, fingers curled around the duffel.
Their …
Watch?
“Oh for God’s sake,” Sixx snapped.
“Just give in. Seriously. Or we’ll be standing here all night, and I need a daiquiri,” Molly declared.
Before Sixx could reply, Maddox growled, gaze aimed over her shoulder, “Fuck. It’s our guy.”
Sixx whirled, looked into station seven …
And there he was.
The man in Tucker’s pictures.
“Molly, baby, hit the bar,” Diesel ordered. “Now.”
Molly scooted, going directly to the sliding glass door and through it.
Sixx pulled her phone out of her cleavage, engaged it and the camera.
She turned back to the men.
“Ready, boys?”
“Fuck yeah,” Diesel said.
Maddox had eyes to the window but jerked up his chin.
“Let’s roll.”
twenty-five
Especially in This House
SIXX
In Sixx’s experience, when you were going to be doing something someone might not want you to do, you didn’t fuck around.
You just did it before they got the chance to try and stop you.
But you went in prepared that they might try and stop you so you could stop them from doing that.
So with the boys at her back, Sixx strolled right up to station seven like she owned the joint, phone raised, camera at the ready.
The DM clocked them before they got there, obviously, and went on alert.
Sixx ignored him, moved wide of him when they got close, and continued to ignore him when he clipped, “No cameras in the play area.”
Apparently ready to rumble after worrying about this situation for as long as they had, although Sixx said nothing, D growled, “Fuck off.”
The DM shifted her way, stupidly keeping his focus on Sixx. “I said no fucking cameras.”
She got off a shot.
His hand darted out toward her phone as she got off another one.
He didn’t catch hold but instead was slammed back to the glass, two big fists in his polo crunched at his chest by Diesel.
“What the fuck!” she heard shouted angrily, by a male voice off to her other side that was too close for her liking, as the DM tussled with D and yelled, “Get off me, man!”
Sixx kept taking shots of the man in station seven, who was now looking out the windows at her with big eyes, the girl with him blinking hazily at the action outside. At the same time she heard male noises at her side and knew Maddox had engaged another DM.
She let the boys do their work and decided to be thorough. If Barclay hadn’t noticed, he needed to become aware of the state of the girls working for his partner. So she took several steps wide to the left, firing off shots of the still-berobed girl in station six, withered and wasted (the latter in more ways than one—seriously, the girl in room seven looked relatively healthy whereas this one was totally strung out, carried too many brands, and was scored all over with the scarred remains of blood play) and waiting for her next trick.
“Sixx, watch it!” Maddox grunted, obviously still grappling.
Sixx whirled just before a hand grabbed for her phone, but she did it prepared. Since her arm was already raised, she cocked it higher and let fly with her elbow, striking him hard in the side of the neck.
DM number three made a surprised noise of pain and stumbled back a step but unfortunately recovered quickly and moved quicker.
Catching her wrist, he twisted the skin in his hand in an effort to bring on enough pain for her to drop the phone (he failed) at the same time he jerked her so her body slammed into his.
Getting her there, he demanded viciously right in her face, “Give me that fuckin’ phone.”
People thought wearing high heels made you vulnerable.
It did only if you didn’t know how to use them.
Sixx knew how to use them.
Therefore she lifted a leg and put all her weight into bringing her stiletto down on the top of his foot.
She thought she felt bone crunching.
He let her go as a wounded, enraged yowl came from his throat, and he bent toward his foot.
She was about to make a move to incapacitate him when they were joined by another party.
And who that party was shocked Sixx into immobility.
The yowl truncated when DM number three was slammed chest first against glass, his cheek violently crunched against the window because Stellan’s hand was wrapped around the side of his head.
Stellan stepped back, taking the guy with him, turning him, and without delay, taking his head in both hands, he slammed the guy’s facedown into his raised knee.
The man grunted as his legs gave out, and Stellan switched holds.
Letting his head go while clenching a fist in his shirt, he held him steady for a succession of blows to the face, each precisely aimed at his cheekbone, the second splitting the skin, the third opening it wider, the fourth sending blood spatter spitting out, the fifth insult to injury, the sixth making it a miracle the guy was remaining conscious.
His head lolling, Stellan let him go, and he floated to the floor.
He straightened from him and didn’t look at a stunned Sixx.
But where he aimed his eyes nudged Sixx out of her stasis, making her pivot toward the noises she was hearing behind her.
The DM Diesel smacked to the glass was in a fetal position on the floor, out of commission, moaning and cradling his junk.
Maddox had a chokehold on DM number two, immobilizing him.
But one of the DMs must have alerted Beardsley because he’d entered the fray and engaged Diesel, and now Diesel was going to town on him.
“That’s it,” Maddox snarled his encouragement. “Fuck him up, bro.”
Diesel didn’t really need the encouragement, and he was proving Sixx’s assessment of last night true.
He could easily twist the guy into a pretzel.
If he wanted to.
He clearly didn’t want to.
He wanted to beat the snot out of him.
Guess that myth of fighters preparing for a bout by not allowing sexual release in order to conserve strength was just that. A myth. Diesel had blown repeatedly very recently, yet he was, no other way to put it, fucking the guy up.
Sixx had just started to turn to Stellan to ask what the hell he was doing there when a deep voice boomed, “Stand down!”
She looked to her right and got shock number two of the evening.