Speed King (Men of Action 1)

“Hell yes. I’m not taking any chances on something happening to you.”

“What can happen? I’m completely safe. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Call it what you want, but with my schedule, I can’t always be there. I hate the hours and I don’t approve.”

“You don’t approve? Tom is a family friend. His bar is a respectable establishment. You know the customers, and get something straight right now. I don’t ask your approval,” she seethes, the fire in her eyes now fierce.

Anger fills the inside of my cab, and I notice the umbrellas she mentioned. I use the ten seconds to think of how to get her to understand my point before pulling into a spot and slamming the truck into park. “That may not have come out right.”

“You think?” Her gorgeous face is now twisted and fuming.

“I’ll talk to Tom and explain that when none of us are available, you can’t—”

“I’d be very careful how you end that statement,” she warns.

“Glen Bates —”

“What about Glen? He’s a dick. I knew that before you explained your disgust with him. Any woman in her right mind can spot his type a mile away.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s guys like him. They want to fuck you. No respect for women, superficial, and have no boundaries.”

“Newsflash, Achilles, the Glen Bateses of the world have been around since I was fourteen years old. You only missed it because, in the short period you were around in high school, everyone was scared of you. When you left, I was fair game, and I suffered under the cloud of rumors because no one understood our relationship. They assumed I was the easy girl left behind. My friendship circle was small and tight because of the jealousy among the girls that couldn’t get your attention. I could go on and on, but the point is, until my date two weeks ago, I hadn’t been out with anyone in six months.

“You’ve been gone close to eleven years. A lot has changed. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman who does not need your approval or your protection. I know how to handle myself and can tell the skeezy jerks with one interaction. You will never be skeezy, but I’m questioning the jerk part.” She slings off her seatbelt, opens her door, and spears me with that raging gaze. “Someone from my office is going into the café. I’m joining her and pretending I was out for a walk. Do not follow me, do not embarrass me in front of the people I work with, and do not show up again unannounced with this attitude. If I find out you call Tom, I swear I’ll break your fingers! God! I am such an idiot.” She jumps out, giving me one last look before slamming the door so hard it shakes the truck.

It goes against every instinct I have not to chase her as she stomps away. My heart thunders in my chest, the blood scorching my veins. You don’t have to be an expert to know I fucked that up and took it a step too far.

The last line remains in my brain because it was filled with much more than anger. It was hurt.

I hurt her… again.

“Fucking hell.” I dig my phone out, keeping my eyes on her. She’ll get her wish and I won’t follow her, but I’m also not leaving until she’s back in her office.

The first call I make is to the café, instructing them to take care of her lunch. The second call is to the person that will undoubtedly piss her off beyond belief.

If I can’t call Tom, I’ll settle for the next best thing. Her dad.

8

Harley

“I don’t know what happened. She came in this way,” Jewls fake-whispers.

“Well, you need to figure it out real quick. Last night, she was walking on cloud nine, spreading a fucking glittery glow everywhere. Tonight, she’s scaring my customers. Dressed like that, I’d expect a packed bar, not a dead zone,” Tom advises grumpily.

“Maybe it’s a bad day at work.”

“You’ve got five minutes before I get involved.”

“I can hear you. I’m pissed, not deaf,” I snap, sneering at them. “Stop talking like I’m not here.”

“Maybe you should put the knife down and step away from the lemon,” Jewls suggests, pointing at the cutting board.

“Maybe you two should mind your business and go back to work.”

“I’d love to, but our bar is a desert.”

I scan the circle of the bar, and not one stool is filled. Then I glance at my watch and notice the happy hour rush is usually in full swing. “The Monday after a game is usually slow,” I offer, knowing it’s a lie.

“Bullshit. Maybe it’s the tortured, resting bitch face or the ‘don’t get near me or I’ll shank you with my knife’ vibe you’re emanating,” Jewls snips.

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m tired and had a bad day.”