West (The Henchmen MC 19)

"Gus!" Huck's voice hollered from behind Ayanna.

"Uh-oh," she said, shaking her head, moving away.

"Coward," I shot at her as she went to retreat back into the club as my brother bee-lined for me. "What's up, Huck?" I asked, voice saccharine sweet.

"Oh, don't pull the I'm-so-innocent shit with me, Gus. The fuck would you need to steal the man's wallet for?"

"Who says this is his?"

"Me," another voice declared, joining us. West. "That was slick, sweetheart, but not that slick."

"The only reason you knew was because I stole your keys," I accused, holding up the wallet in question between my first two fingers, making him come over and take it from me. "Don't worry. I didn't steal anything. I was just getting to know you."

"You could have asked," he suggested as he tucked the wallet away.

"But where's the fun in that?" I shot back as the back door opened again, bringing out all the guys. My girls were all still lost inside somewhere.

"We're heading back to our place," Huck declared, knowing I hated that place. I mean, was there some rule somewhere that said places where guys hung out all together had to be disgusting? Because someone needed to cross that rule right the fuck out.

He didn't want me to come.

And, normally, I wouldn't.

"Get the fuck back here," a different voice hissed, drawing my attention to the side where some random dude was chasing a little black kitten who seemed to have escaped his car parked a few feet to our side.

Remy moved out, scooping the kitten up, holding him up in the air. "Look at you with your sweet face," he cooed, smiling up at the cat, dimples and all. I was pretty sure the only thing Remy liked more than cars and women was animals. His dog—a one-eared stray he'd picked up abandoned in a ditch in Alabama—was the most spoiled K9 in the state. "Look at those big green eyes. Look at this mess," he went on, clutching the kitten to his chest, pulling up one of his paws, dipped in yellow. "Did you get into a bit of paint, you sweet thing?"

My stomach dropped as my gaze went to Huck. We both knew before it happened what was going to play out.

It was McCoy who set it in motion.

"He's a bait cat," McCoy explained, lip curling.

"Bait cat," Remy repeated.

"For a dog fight. They paint their feet different colors, so shitheads can bet on which one dies first."

Yep.

And there it was.

Remy was the sweetest, most gentle, kind-hearted man in the world ninety-nine percent of the time.

But that other one percent?

It was like a different person entirely took over his body.

It was like watching a demon possession as his body went rigid, as his jaw ticked, as his eyes went freakishly bright.

"Uh-oh," West said, already seeing the change in the man he had just barely met.

"Is that right?" Remy asked through clenched teeth as he handed the kitten off to McCoy, his own gaze on the man who had been chasing the feline.

I wasn't sure he knew just how epically he had fucked up until he saw the way Remy was staring at him.

Blind rage.

That was what was in Remy's face right that moment.

I'd only seen it a handful of times over the years, but it was chilling each and every time.

The man turned on his heel, and started to run.

He got to the side of his car before Remy was on him, grabbing the collar of his shirt, whipping him back, then slamming him forward, his head cracking off the side of the car.

"You like fights, you sonofabitch?" Remy yelled, turning the guy, ramming him back into the car. "Stop being a fucking pussy then," he demanded, landing a punch to his side that, even from a distance, I knew cracked a rib. "Fight me. Or is it no fun if some innocent animal isn't dying? Is that it, you sick fuck?" he asked as his fists met jaw, eye socket, temple, stomach.

"You gonna step in?" West asked Huck, though he sounded wholly unbothered by the violent display.

"Nah," Huck said, shrugging. "He usually stops before it goes too far."

"Usually?" West asked.

"Besides," Huck went on, "the bastard does have it coming to him."

We all had to agree with that.

The man's body fell to the ground, face up. In general, Remy was a fair fight sort of guy. But just this once, he was a kick-a-man-when-he's-down sort, cocking his leg back, then slamming it forward full-force, the tip of his foot landing a shot to the guy's groin. I wouldn't be surprised if the man never gained use of that particular organ again by the sound of the scream he let out.

Remy turned, made his way back toward us. His hand rose, wiping some blood off his cheek. Each step had that rage slipping away like layers of clothing he no longer needed.