We finished eating and were working on a keg of beer and the bottle of Jameson, catching up, playing poker, just basically shooting the shit and reacquainting ourselves with each other.
Then there was a fist pounding on the front door, which we’d locked so people didn’t mistake the glow of lights for us being open, just in case the neon closed sign wasn’t enough of an indicator.
Brock jumped up. “That’s probably Lucian,” he said, striding for the door.
We all stood up, ready to crush our weirdest and most wayward brother under an avalanche of hugs.
Brock stiffened when he got the door open, though. “Sorry, man. We’re closed for a private party.”
A male voice came from the other side of the door. “I’m not here to drink.”
Baxter was right behind Brock, as usual. “Good, since we’re closed. Come back tomorrow.”
“I just said I’m not here to drink. I’m looking for someone.”
Brock turned to glance at me over his shoulder, obviously unsure how to proceed. I slugged the last of my beer and joined Brock and Bax by the door. The guy on the other side was probably a couple years older than me, maybe thirty or so. Medium height, fine blond hair slicked back. Not ugly, but not good-looking either. Just…average. Something about him made my instincts sit up and take note. He made me…uncomfortable, but for no reason I could pinpoint.
“How can I help you?” I asked.
“My name is Michael Morrison, and I’m looking for someone,” the guy repeated. “A woman. About five-eight, reddish-brown hair. Her name is Dru Connolly.”
Everything inside me went cold and hard and all sorts of pissed off. Brock noticed my reaction, and his arms went across his chest, and he shifted to block the door more completely. Baxter, always ready to throw down, cracked his knuckles and rolled his head on his thick neck. I heard chairs scraping across the wood floor behind me, and knew the rest of my brothers were there to back me up—not that I needed it, since I was fairly certain I could break this twerp in half without breaking a sweat. He was wearing pressed khakis and a pink polo, for fuck’s sake, and the creases in his pants were as fresh at midnight as they would have been at noon. He even had a pair of Wayfarers hanging from the V of his polo. Jesus, what a dweeb.
“Get lost, motherfucker,” I growled. “You ain’t gonna find anything here but trouble.”
“I’m not looking for trouble,” he said, his voice calm despite the fact that I had a lot of inches and pounds on him—not to mention Bax and Brock standing there looking on. “I’m looking for Dru.”
I actually snorted. “If you gotta go lookin’, then maybe she don’t wanna be found.”
His brows lowered. “You know where she is, don’t you?” He stepped forward, pushing to within a couple inches of me; ballsy sonofabitch, I’ll give him that. “I spoke to the pilot who flew the airplane she arrived on, and he indicated that this bar was within walking distance of the dock where he’d tied up. I’d like to see Dru, please.”
I crossed my arms over my bare chest; I’d never bothered putting on a shirt or shoes, so my build and tats were on full display. Most people tend to find me pretty intimidating, especially if I’m putting out the I can bash your skull in without flinching vibe, which I was doing right then. “All right, I’ll say this as clearly as I know how: you have exactly thirty seconds to clear the fuck out, or you’ll be eating your meals through a straw. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down, shitstick?”
He paled a little, but held his ground. “No need for violence. I just want to speak with her.”
“She don’t wanna talk to you,” I growled. “Twenty seconds.”
“You’re out of your depth, I’m afraid,” he responded. “You’ve threatened me without provocation, and if you do physically harm me, my lawyers will sue you into the next century. Now. I will only say this once more. I want…to speak…to Dru.”
I saw red then, and started forward, ready to blast in his veneered fucking teeth.
Bax, however, got there first. His fist closed around Michael’s throat, then Baxter’s seventeen-inch biceps flexed and Michael left the ground. “You must be fuckin’ stupid, yo,” Baxter growled. “Get lost. Last chance. I squeeze just a little harder…” his fist tightened, and Michael’s face went redder, nearing blue, “…and you won’t be suing anyone. Got me, bub?”
A small, pale hand touched Baxter’s biceps. “Bax…put him down. He’s not worth it.”