HARDCORE: Storm MC(4)

Before I could even process that statement or make a move, I felt a strong tug on my arm, pulling me out of Mr. F’s grip, and I cycled sideward in my stilettos, trying to keep to my feet. As soon as I stabilized, I processed the craziest sight: Dom, personal security to the Boss, slug-festing it all over the Boss’s rich and scary VIP. And the music kept pounding.





Chapter Two



Dom



Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound.



I couldn’t tell if it was the baseline of the music or the movement of my arms, or the beat of the punches I was landing on the asshole down in front of me, who was looking less and less like a man and more and more like a bloody mess. Didn’t matter. He had his hands on my girl, and that shit had to stop.



Pound. Pound. Pou…



Slowly I became aware of strong hands on my upper arms, restraining, pulling me back, until I lost my balance over the downed dude and landed on my ass next to him. He didn’t look so good. He was still breathing, but his nose was rearranged, his face covered in blood, and he was coughing kinda roughly. I guessed I must have probably cracked a rib or two, too. Par for the course. He fucking deserved it.



Whoa… wait a minute, sucker. Back the fuck up. What was that I had just been thinking? The girl. Sienna. Fuck. Rewind.



She’s not my girl. She’s not mine at all. Damnit. What the fuck was I doing? Beating up the Boss’s VIP, just because he had his hands on the goods? Aw, fuck fuck shit. There I go again, my temper getting in my way again. Fuck. I did not need this shit, not now, not when I had to keep my head clear and in the game.



But man, I could tell Sienna wasn’t comfortable with this dude—I could read her like a book now, after watching her for the past two months—and I had just reacted. Shit. I might have totally fucked myself right here. But this Mr. F dude was bad news. Rich, pompous, connected. Arrogant as fuck. Not that he cornered that market—hell, I was pretty damn arrogant, too, if I’m honest. But I backed mine with knowledge that I could damn well take care of myself and take care of business, whatever was necessary. This fucker? His arrogance was power-driven, which is the most annoying kind. He was a string-puller and an asshole. He probably had deserved a good beating for a long time. I was kinda glad it was me who gave it to him.



Not that I’d be telling the Boss that. The fucker. I hated him, too. Worse.



“Yo, dude, come back to us, man. Focus. Dom, dude, you fucked up. Fuck.” Shredder, one of my brethren in our MC, Storm, was standing in front of me, hands on his hips, shaking his head and looking at the sniveling pile that was Mr. F.



“Aw, fuck. He had his hands all over her. It’s against the rules. Fuck.” I hoped that excuse would be enough. I didn’t want to look too deeply into my real reason for flipping the fuck out over this asshole’s hands being all over Sienna.



“Dominic. In my office. Now.” Joey the Prick Ronn finally piped up, attempting an authoritarian tone through his nasal cavity.



Ronn gingerly raised himself out of the booth, in which he had cravenly sat throughout the beatdown, then straightened his silverized jacket and swaggered to the elevator bank near the lobby.



I dragged my ass off the floor, checked out my knuckles—bloody and a little sore, but not that bad, all things considered—and followed his lead.



We rode silently up to the second floor, neither of us looking at one another. Out the elevator, down the hall, and into his office, which was lined with a wall of windows overlooking the main room of the club. He seated himself importantly behind his huge walnut desk, which kinda dwarfed him and made him look a little ridiculous, though I bet no one ever told him that. He wasn’t the biggest guy: kinda short, probably no taller than five seven, and a little on the paunchy side. He actually reminded me a little of Joe Pesci, but without the sense of humor or that awesome accent.



He looked at me standing there, towering over his desk, and clearly didn’t like what he saw. He glanced at one of the chairs posed in front of the desk, then looked back up at me and said, “Sit.”



I played the good dog and sat.



The chairs were rigged. They were made to sink your ass way below normal level, so even though I towered over Ronn under every normal circumstance, it was clear that his chair hiked him up and mine sunk me down, so his head was nearly level with mine. I almost laughed out loud; it was such an obvious trick to gain intimidation points, but it still failed ’cause I probably had a good seven or eight inches on him.



“Do you know who that was? What the fuck were you thinking? I can’t believe you just knocked around Jonathan fucking Fielding. I should take you out, right here, right now. You have a big problem, my friend. Better start talking, fast,” he said, thinking he sounded all threatening.