Savior (Savages 3)

I felt like some chick in a movie. Like one of those cheesy B-action movies. I was the girl who was going to blindly trust the guy whose face she hadn't even seen, whose motives I had no idea of. Because, well, what choice did I really have?

I nodded and his hand moved off my mouth. "Two," I said, sucking in a desperate breath.

His arm released my middle and he moved out from behind me and toward the front of the store. It was dark, but I could make out some things that made it unmistakable. There were tables and chairs, desks with locked drawers, big framed flash art on the walls. It was a tattoo shop. For some reason, I felt marginally better at least knowing that fact.

My savior's back was to me as he opened the front door and stood in the opening, looking out at the street. The streetlights out front gave me a slightly better look at him. From what I could tell, he was tall. Meaning tall. See, I was tall 'for a girl' at my five-foot-nine. He was just plain tall for a human being. My best guess was somewhere around six-three or four. And it seemed like every inch of that six-three or four was made of solid muscle. He had one of those bodies that only some guys managed to get where he had massive shoulders and a strong looking back that tapered into a slim waist. He had on slate gray heavy sweatpants that were slung low on his hips and showed nothing of what was underneath, though if I had to place a bet, my money was on a fine looking backside and muscular legs. His top was clad in a black wifebeater that fit him like a second skin and, therefore, let me make out the strong back and shoulders I mentioned before. His arms were bare, and what (very little) skin I could see underneath all the tattoos, was a really envy-inspiring shade of caramel.

I heard footsteps on the street and felt the panic well up strong and almost crippling. Was he going to sell me out after all? Did he actually work with those guys? I pressed hard into the wall then silently slid down it, wedging myself into the corner behind a tattoo table, knees tight to my chest, arms around my legs, not so much as breathing in some insane fear that it could be audible.

"Paine," the fit guy who chased me said, making my face scrunch up. Pain? What about pain? "See a girl around here? Looks like a Barbie? Blond hair, blue eyes, nice tits and ass, blow job lips?"

I felt my lip curl at that particular description. I wasn't unaccustomed to the 'Barbie' nickname. There was a little bit of truth in it. I was tall; I had blond hair (it was actually a balayage I paid way too much money for); I had long legs. That part, I could live with even if it was getting old. But the tits, ass, and blow job lips comment? Yeah, that was just messed up. Did all guys think things like that when they saw women?

Hey look, it's a chick. Quick- we need to objectify her before we realize she's a human being!

"The fuck would I tell you shit for, D? This isn't your part of town. Enzo know you're out causing problems on Henchmen turf?"

"Ain't afraid of no pussy fucking bikers," the other guy, the one who was huffing and puffing, said.

So, if you were from Navesink Bank, you knew about The Henchmen. Even if you didn't know much about them, you knew they existed. You probably saw them driving around on their bikes in town on any given day or night. If you went to the only decent local bar, Chaz's, you ran into them there. That was their hangout. As a somewhat informed citizen, I knew The Henchmen Motor Cycle Club wasn't one of those 'weekend warrior' type organizations. They were actual criminals. If the papers were to be believed, which I was generally raised not to trust, they were some kind of arms dealers. As a woman, however, I also knew that it seemed like every last one of them was really good looking. Not that I would date a biker, let alone a criminal biker, but still... they were nice to look at.

I also knew that pretty much no one would call The Henchmen "pussy fucking bikers". Or, at least, if they did and word got around, they would live to regret it.

"I'll pass along your opinions, Trick. Now I suggest you get the fuck out of my part of town before you really start to piss me off."

"Know you think you're some badass mother fuck..." D, the muscle-y one, started. The rest of his sentence got cut off. This was mostly because his breath got cut off. Meaning the guy who sort-of saved me grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the side of the doorway, almost lifting him off his feet.