Goddammit. Motherfucking Scott deserved an ass-whooping for whatever stunt he’d just pulled.
“Don’t even think about it,” Mav called out as he hopped from the Jeep. He jogged backward, pointing at his obstinate wife. “I’m serious, baby. Keep that sweet ass in the fucking car, or I’ll blister it.”
Her fierce scowl and lack of attention to his empty threat would have been laughable if shit wasn’t going downhill faster than a fucking Olympic skier.
“I’m trained for situations like this, Maverick.”
He reversed direction, stalking back toward the car. “Swear to Christ, baby, I won’t be able to think of anything but you if you step one foot out of that car.”
With a huff and a roll of her pretty blue eyes, she pulled her door shut. “Fine. But if you’re not back out here with Scott in five minutes, I’m calling Curly.”
“Deal.” He grabbed the back of her head, kissed her hard, then sprinted toward the quick mart to see what fucking trouble Scott got himself in.
He slowed as he reached the propped door and forced himself to adopt a relaxed posture. The jingle of electronic bells above his head alerted Scott and the other two bikers to his arrival.
They all swiveled their heads in his direction. “There a problem, gentlemen?” he asked the two unknowns. They were similar in height, somewhere around six feet, and somewhat built as far as he could tell, though one had a sizable beer gut. The slimmer one held an open knife in his dirty hand while Beer-gut sported a lovely pair of brass knuckles.
Being that he’d just come from the airport, Mav had jack and shit on him as far as weapons.
Fucking great. Getting his cheek crushed by brass knuckles wasn’t how he imagined kicking off his vacation.
Beer-gut smiled, revealing a mouth missing more than a few teeth. The remaining choppers were a lovely shade of decay.
Ahh, meth-heads.
“Ain’t no problem here,” he said in a heavy southern accent. “We’s just making friends.”
“Glad to hear it,” Mav said. “Never can have too many friends.”
Scott snorted.
“Something funny, fucker?” the slimmer man asked, scowling at Scott.
Both were probably in their late thirties. Beer-gut also had a smooth-shaven head and scruffy beard, while his skinny buddy’s dark hair hung past his shoulders in greasy waves.
Christ, Mav wasn’t in the mood for a fucking fight. He wanted to get to Curly’s, fuck his wife, and sleep for a solid eight.
But, more often than not, the universe was a sadist with a fucked-up sense of humor.
“Yeah, actually. I was remembering how your ol’ lad—"
Fucking hell. “Nope, nothing funny here,” Mav cut in. He jerked his thumb toward the door and tried to smack Scott upside the head with his glare. “Let’s get a move on, brother. We got places to be.” They didn’t need to know Scott’s name.
Scott’s eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared like a bull ready to charge. He gripped the neck of the jagged bottle but didn’t move to leave. If he ignored the order and attacked these two ass wipes, Mav would personally make sure Curly strung Scott up by his jingle bells and let him dangle until the New Year.
“Brother!” He snapped it this time.
Scott flicked him an annoyed glare, then relaxed his shoulders. With the bottle still clutched tight in his grasp, he began to walk toward the door.
“Figures Curly would surround himself with a bunch of pussies,” Beer-gut muttered.
The other biker snickered as though the cliché comment was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Maybe it was. He sure didn’t look like he got out much unless this gas station counted a nightlife.
“The fuck you say?” Scott whirled on them.
“Get the fuck outside!” Mav barked, shoving Scott toward the door.
Too bad the guy was so goddammed solid. He barely budged.
Beer-gut smiled his rotting grin. “Said you’re a pussy. A wet, sloppy, stretched out pu—”
Scott lunged. His arm slashed up through the air so fast, that Mav never had a chance to react. He swiped the ragged end of the bottle across Beer-gut’s face with a deadly snarl. “Say it again now,” he shouted as Beer-gut dropped to his knees, cradling his face with an ear-splitting shriek.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mav shouted as he dove for Scott.
Just as he latched onto the back of Scott’s cut, his stupid fucking brother twisted out of his rip and jammed the sharp bottle into slim guy’s thigh on a downward arc.
He screamed as well, hitting the ground next to his wounded friend.
Behind the counter, a teenage clerk stared with wide, terrified eyes and a phone in his trembling hand. Fuck.
Cops were probably already on the way.
Mav yanked Scott away from the two bikers bleeding. They shouted every obscenity they could think of as they writhed in pain.
“Get the fuck in the car,” Mav shouted as he propelled Scott into the parking lot. The guy might have appeared skinnier than before, but he wasn’t a lightweight by any means.