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Max moved. His gut was roiling, and his heart was pounding like the music shaking the ground, but he moved.
He pushed through the crowd and stalked up to Lionel, who slowly turned around to face him, a smile playing on the curve of his scarred mouth. Two big hellsehers, Seth Marksman and Colton Adler, separated themselves from the crowd of people, making it known who they’d come here with tonight. Max would be willing to bet there were more where these two came from. As former Right Hand of Randal Slade, Lionel fought dirty. He took zero risks, always bringing more backup than he allowed you to see.
“Reacher,” Lionel drawled. “I would say what a pleasant surprise it is to see you here, but I have to admit I half-expected you to still be serving as Lacey’s chaperone.”
“I don’t need a chaperone,” Lace hissed.
Lionel exaggerated the act of looking between Max and Lace. “I can see that.”
“Is there anything else you want to say, Lionel?” Max drawled, stepping closer. “Or can we quit fucking around and cut to the fun part?” He inched his hand out of his pocket, the brass knuckles attached to his fist gleaming in the strobe lights. “I’m itching for a fight, and your face would make a fabulous punching bag.” Truth be told, he still felt like hurling, but he hoped the lighting would disguise the truth. If it came down to a fight, he was less likely to win and more likely to vomit all over Lionel’s shirt.
Lionel gave him a cold smile. “A tempting offer, but I’ll have to take you up on it another time. Maybe we can all meet at the Pit.” He winked, that wolfish smile broadening.
“Yeah, maybe,” Max taunted back, knowing exactly what this asshole was alluding to. It was to Lace that Max mouthed, “Let’s go.” He could smell the kerosene again.
Thankfully, Lace didn’t hesitate to push past Lionel and make her way to Max’s side, her expression as cold and hard as a statue.
They turned and began to walk into the crowd. Max thought—and hoped—they were in the clear.
But then Lionel spoke. And Lace froze.
“If you ever feel like returning to a line of work that you’re actually good at, I could use some extra pocket change. You always were better at fucking strangers than you were killing them.”
Max stiffened. “Lacey,” he tried. He felt tension rippling off of her, more intense than his own. When he saw her upper lip curl back over her teeth, he knew they were done for.
She was whirling on a heel and lunging for Lionel before Max had a chance to react. “You asshole!” she barked. The music picked up tempo, nearly swallowing her words. The strobe lights matched it, plunging their surroundings into flashes of distracting color.
“Lacey—don’t!” Max bellowed. Shouldering the duffel bag, he dove across the distance separating him from Lace, catching her mere seconds before her fist could connect with Lionel’s nose.
The Huntsman was smirking, daring her to make impact, while his men stood by and watched, the same identical looks of sick pleasure on their faces. He wondered if these assholes had been around all those years ago, when she’d lived under his roof.
Max picked Lacey up mid-jump, her body snapping back against his like a rubber band. She was flailing, the back of her head nearly colliding with his face. Guttural snarls and curse words tore out of her, the force she threw into her struggles nearly sending them both crashing to the floor. Max held onto her tightly, his body absorbing every kick, every twist and lunge.
“Stop!” He grunted as she threw her elbows into his ribs. “Lacey, please. This is what he wants, can’t you see that?”
Just like that, Lace went limp as a ragdoll in Max’s arms, the tension vacating her body as if it had never been there to begin with.
“This is what he wants!” Max hissed again. Maybe that was what had made her listen, what’d made her realize this battle was futile. Her chest was still heaving, and her heart was fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings beneath his palm, but aside from that, she was still.
Lionel and his men snickered. Clubbers stared, a few reaching for their phones, as if to call the emergency line or snap a picture. The fire performers were gone, thank gods, but the place still reeked of kerosene and smoke.
“We need to go.” Max’s words were voiced in a quiet volume only Lace could hear.
“Put me down,” she panted.
He set her on her feet, grabbed her by the wrist, and pulled her through the crowd of people, some of those people nearly tripping over their own feet in their efforts to get out of the way.
Lionel called from behind them, “Tell Darien I’ll be seeing him soon.” Max felt Lace’s body go stiff at the threat, the pulse in her wrist skipping twice.
“Don’t worry about that,” Max said, lightly squeezing her wrist in comfort and warning. “Darien can handle him.”
Max nearly knocked several people to the floor as he scrambled to get Lacey out of the club. And when they got outside, she rushed around the corner of the building and down a grimy alley, where she started pacing back and forth near the dumpsters.
The air was heavy from the day’s rain, the humidity turning the medley of smells in the district into a pungent and fishy soup. Grateful to be free of the oily stink of kerosene, Max sucked down the repulsive air like it was fresh coffee or flowers as he followed Lace into the damp alley.
She was breathing heavily through her teeth, her pale throat bobbing as she swallowed back what Max knew was the urge to vomit. That made two of them, but for far different reasons. She ran a shaking hand through her hair, followed by the other, again and again.
“I hate him,” she choked out.
