“Hey, babe,” he said.
His voice was rough but felt like butter through my body. Everything ran down and sent a trembling feeling right between my thighs. I was almost a puddle because of two words.
I stared up at him, turned and yet terrified.
“Uh, hey,” I managed to get out.
“I have everything ordered,” Knox said. “Got my food to go, and something for Ana.”
I saw Slam grin and then he eyed me again. “Fresh round here, babe?”
He moved his left hand and I saw his knuckles. They weren’t swollen, but definitely ripped up with cuts. He quickly grabbed a napkin and put his hands under the table.
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
I turned and hustled away toward the bar area. But then I made a quick turn and rushed out the side exit. I looked left to right but I didn’t see a thing. I took a few more steps and that’s when I saw a foot. On the other side of the alley, next to a dumpster. As I slowly approached I feared the worst. Slam had killed that guy from the other table. But why? It couldn’t have been because the guy slapped my ass, right? Slam wasn’t at the restaurant to defend me. Those guys were serious trouble. The entire group of them - Reaper’s Bastards - were all but trouble.
I’m talking murderous trouble. They had members in prison for life. They had members dead. The ones alive were just waiting for their time to come. Either a bullet from an enemy or a set of handcuffs would set their future.
When I saw that it was the guy that smacked my ass, I let out a gasp.
But he wasn’t dead.
He was just beaten up.
He sat there, looking dazed. His nose and mouth were bloody. His shirt ripped halfway down his body. He reached for me with shaky hands.
My mind played out the scene. If I called the police - or my father - then what? Slam would be taken away in cuffs. That would get another one of these guys off the street.
“Who did this?” I asked the guy.
“Someone passing by,” he said and coughed. He turned and spit blood on the ground and groaned. “Guy in a black hoodie. Took my wallet and keys. Slammed me off the wall…”
Slam.
“A black hoodie? You’re sure?”
“I fucking saw what I saw!” the guy squealed at me.
Then he broke down in tears.
I ran back to the restaurant and went into the kitchen. I whispered to Hector that someone had gotten beaten up outside. He nodded and said he’d call for someone to help. I then left the kitchen and went to the table where the other asshole sat.
I told him that his friend had been mugged outside.
The guy exploded on me, asking me what kind of shit hole restaurant we were running. I tried to apologize but he spat fire at me, getting way too close for comfort. For a split second I caught myself wanting to say that his friend deserved it.
Then I heard a booming sound and me and the asshole looked back to see Slam rising up from the booth again.
“Is there a problem?” he asked the asshole.
“Who the…”
“Careful,” Slam said. He flexed his fists and sent a clear signal he wasn’t done fighting for the night.
Suddenly, the asshole shut up.
And he ran away.
I stared at Slam again, this time with a little distance between us.
“Do you have a black hoodie?” I asked him.
He slowly shook his head with a shit eating grin.
I shivered.
Still turned on… still terrified…
“How about those beers, babe?” Slam asked me.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll be right back. With beer this time.”
I forced myself right then to get back to normal. To finish out my night. The gossip in the kitchen was all about the police coming to get the guy that Slam beat up. I waited for the cops to come looking for Slam but they never did. The asshole stuck to his story that someone in a black hoodie jumped him and ran down the alley with his wallet, keys, and his cell phone.
Each time I went to the table, I felt Slam’s eyes devour me.
He didn’t say a word to me though, which made the tension ever greater.
It made no sense there was tension between us though.
He was a filthy criminal biker.
I was the daughter of a cop.
Even still… somewhere inside me… I wanted to know…
Did Slam beat that guy up to defend me?
I thought they were finally going to leave, but then things got worse. I could tell everyone in the restaurant was uncomfortable with the Reaper’s Bastards members there. They brewed trouble and spit it like fire.
As Slam reached into his leather cut thing, I feared he was going to bring out a gun. Instead, it was a pack of cigarettes. I watched in awe as he lit one up, clearly going against the law of no smoking. It wasn’t the restaurant that made that up, it was the state.
Behind me, I heard someone clear their throat.
It was Marco.
He looked sweaty and afraid.
Were they here because of Marco?
“Get them the fuck out,” he said to me. “I don’t care how. Call the police. Call your fucking father, Belle. Get them out of my restaurant.”