Yelling about his money, Bookem barked when the guy kicked the woman in her stomach. Great, a hooker and her pimp. The guy spun around, gaping at him. “Yo, man. You need to put that dog on a leash.”
“Why? You’re not on one,” Michaels said angrily, setting his bag down, making his way over to the woman to help her.
“You don’t want none of this, man.” The guy snarled right back, his eyes bouncing from him to Bookem.
Michaels squatted and tried to help the girl up. Her white, low-cut crop top had blood splatter on it and her pantyhose were torn from the concrete. Her lip was busted and swelling fast. Michaels pulled a napkin from his bag and dabbed at her mouth. She snatched it from his hand, frowning up at him. “I’m fine. Just go. He’s my husband, so don’t go calling the damn police or nothing.”
“You heard her. She’s fine. Now get the fuck out of here, white knight.”
Michaels stood. He’d seen plenty of situations like this. Unfortunately not every damsel was in distress, or wanted help if they were. To free a whore, a whore had to first admit she was a whore. Shaking his head, he was picking up his bag when the bastard stupidly opened his mouth again.
“You got money man? She’s good. Fifty dollars and she’ll make all your dreams come true.” He grinned a fake-gold smile and it made Michaels want to puke. He calmly set his bag back on the ground. “That’s more like it,” the pimp said, rubbing his slimy hands together.
Michaels reached in his pocket and easily slid his hand into his brass knuckles. He walked up to the smug ass and caught him twice in his jaw and lip before he could even blink. “You piece of shit,” Michaels spat.
The man put his hand to his mouth in shock, looking at the blood on his fingertips. His jaw was already turning a dark shade of red.
“Now you and her look just alike.”
“Motherfucker.” The pimp reached in his back pocket and Bookem leaped into action, but Michaels barked at him to stay. Last thing Michaels wanted was for Judge’s dog to get hurt because of a fight he’d jumped into. Pimp pulled out a switchblade and Michaels laughed. When the man brought his hand up, Michaels punched him hard enough in the ribs to at least fracture a couple. When he doubled over, Michaels brought his knee up fast and precise, his kneecap connecting with the pimp’s nose. The crunch was sickening, yet disturbingly satisfying to hear. He shouldn’t be able to throw any more punches or kicks towards his wife for a while. Michaels ignored the cursing from the man and his wife as she inched over to wrap her arms around her husband.
He showed his badge. “You better be gone when I come back.” He calmly picked up his bag and headed back around to the front of the motel, ducking into the stairwell. He climbed the stairs two at a time and waited to see if they were going to come looking for him. The sound of tires retreating over gravel met his ears and that’s when he went to his room. Opening the door, he wasn’t surprised to find Judge standing at the window with his arms crossed, shaking his head.
Michaels ignored the condescending look and placed their breakfast on the table. “Hungry?” he asked, not even out of breath. He went about mixing his coffee like nothing had happened.
Judge snorted, while patting Bookem on his head. A bowl of food had been made and set next to the bathroom door, Bookem quickly found his way to it.
Michaels was just setting his cup down after a large sip when Judge placed one massive hand on the back of his chair and the other on the table, caging him in. He leaned down over him and Michaels got a smell of Judge’s deodorant or aftershave, whichever one, it smelled fucking delicious. Keeping an even face, he let Judge tower over him, leaning in close to his face. Neither one of them said anything, just stared. After a few seconds, Judge’s sexy mouth, quirked into a smile. “So you’re a fighter, huh.”
It wasn’t a question so Michaels didn’t respond. Instead he focused on keeping his body from combusting at the close proximity of this sinful man.
“Why didn’t you let Bookem attack him?” Judge’s deep, raspy voice was doing a number on Michaels’ cock. It was too early for that shit. Still keeping up his composed façade, Michaels shrugged.
“I didn’t need him to.”
Judge’s gaze dropped as he ran a thick, calloused thumb over Michaels’ swollen knuckles. “No I guess you didn’t,” he whispered, those bedroom eyes staring down at his hands.
Michaels’ breathing was accelerating and he tried hard not to groan when that hand suddenly disappeared as if Judge suddenly realized what he was doing. The big man dropped down heavily in the other chair and inhaled his sandwich in three bites. It looked like he’d hardly chewed it at all, when he gulped the warm coffee to wash it all down. Crumpling the cup and wrapper, Judge tossed it in the trash and stood to finish getting dressed. Michaels’ had his bag by the door and waited while Judge placed his weapons on him. Instead of him eye-fucking Judge; he focused his attention on his emails.