Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Concern flutters in my tummy. Shit, this isn’t good. Fitz is strangling the—
Nope, he’s punching him. With his free arm, he takes a powerful swing that lands a bone-cracking blow to Davey’s nose. Fitz releases him, and Davey crumples to the sticky floor, blood pouring out of his nostrils.
“I’m having you arrested for assault!”
“Go for it.” Fitzy sounds amused by the threat, and there’s something so insanely sexy about that. “Saves Brenna a phone call to the cops. She can press charges against you at the same time.”
I cannot take my eyes off his face. His jaw is sharper than steel. His mouth is hard and dangerous. And his arms are… Oh sweet Lord, his muscles are coiled with tension, taut with rage, and his tattoos seem to ripple across his skin as he presses his sculpted arms flush to his sides. The dragon on his left biceps looks as if it’s about to take flight and rain fire on the world. Fitz is as primal as the creature on his arm. He looms over the fallen Davey. Big and broad and radiating raw, masculine power.
I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone more.
“Good idea,” Brenna pipes up, smiling at Davey. “Not sure if you knew this, but groping a girl in a bar is considered sexual assault in this state.”
Her words succeed in making him go pale. His bloody nose paired with cheeks devoid of color gives Davey a ghoulish air. He stumbles to his feet and tries to push past Fitz.
Fitz is a wall of muscle. Muscle walls don’t budge.
“Colin,” Hollis murmurs.
After a few beats, Fitz moves out of the way to let Davey pass.
“Come on, Kerry,” Davey mumbles to his girlfriend. “These fuckers aren’t worth it.”
He says this as if he’d been the one with the upper hand on Fitz and not the other way around.
“Slut,” is the blonde’s parting insult to me.
I swallow a sigh. Some people never learn.
“I’m sorry,” comes Fitz’s rough voice. He’s speaking to the wait staff. “I’ll pay for the damages.”
“No,” I blurt, stepping forward. “I will. I started the fight. It’s my fault.”
The fact that Fitz doesn’t argue the point or insist on paying tells me he feels the same way about where the blame lies. One look is all it takes for me to glimpse the barely checked accusation in his eyes.
Oh, he blames me, all right.
I wait for him to scold me. Or maybe throw me over his shoulder as he’s prone to doing. Instead, he curses under his breath, grabs his jacket, then mutters, “I’m out.”
Disbelief spirals through me as I watch him stalk away. I’m frozen for a beat. Then I tear my gaze off him and grab my Chanel purse from the booth seat.
Nate and Matt are trying to help the flustered waitress clean up the broken photo frames, while Hollis is murmuring something in Brenna’s ear.
That leaves Hunter. I toss him the Chanel and say, “I’ve got cash—can you pay whatever needs paying? I want to check on Fitz.”
Without giving him a chance to reply, I dart toward the exit.
Outside, I’m quick to realize my mistake. I forgot that it’s winter. My coat is inside, and I’m wearing a shirt that doesn’t have a back. Goose bumps break out on my exposed skin when the chilled air kisses it. I run as fast as my Prada boots and sense of self-preservation will allow. The heels aren’t that high, but a layer of ice covers the ground beneath them.
I catch up to Fitz in the parking lot behind Malone’s, as he’s unlocking his car.
“Wait,” I call out.
At the sound of my voice, his broad frame tenses. “Go back inside, Summer. You’ll freeze to death.”
I hurry over to him. “Not until I make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” His tone is terse.
“Your knuckles are bleeding.” Alarmed, I grab his hand and rub one big knuckle. The pad of my thumb comes back stained with a reddish tinge.
“Screw my knuckles. Your goddamn lip is bleeding.”
I wipe my mouth with the heel of my palm. “She didn’t split my lip,” I assure him. “It’s a scratch from her demon nails.”
He doesn’t even crack a smile. “Go back inside,” he repeats. “I’m leaving.”
Something about his expression raises my hackles.
Well, not something. I know exactly what’s bothering me—the disapproval shining in my direction.
“You’re pissed because I tackled that girl?” I demand.
“Of course I’m pissed.” He slams the driver’s door and marches toward me. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was defending myself and my friend,” I snap. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly enjoy repeatedly being called a slut.”
“And I don’t particularly enjoy bar brawls,” he retorts. His breath hangs in the frigid air before dissipating.
“Right, and I’m a habitual bar brawler!” I clench my teeth. Because I’m cold and they won’t stop chattering, but also because I have the craziest urge to bite him. Maybe I am a brawler.