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Piston’s grin faltered, but he stood his ground, fueled by liquid courage. “I don’t see why I should. The whore ain’t wearing your cut. She’s free pussy.”
Trigger’s eyes bore into Piston’s, the silence between them escalating the tension in the room. People surrounding them seemed to sense the impending storm and grew quiet, their gazes fixed on the confrontation unfolding.
Harley’s fingers tightened around the bottle she held in her hand, and for a moment, Trigger thought she might use it as a weapon. However, he hoped she wouldn’t because he needed to defend her honor, and he couldn’t do that if he didn’t know she was safe.
With a sudden movement, Piston lunged at Trigger, his fist aimed at Trigger’s jaw. But Trigger’s reflexes were lightning fast, honed from years of surviving in the unforgiving world of outlaw motorcycle clubs. He ducked under the punch while extending his fist, connecting with Piston’s stomach in a powerful blow.
The impact echoed in the bar, a dull thud that was drowned out by the gasps of some of the sweet butts and party girls. Piston staggered back, wind knocked out of him, his bravado finally crumbling. But he wasn’t about to give up so easily. He swung wildly at Trigger again, his blows fueled by alcohol, frustration, and embarrassment.
Trigger danced around the punches, his movements fluid and calculated. With each dodge, he countered with a precise and targeted strike. The sounds of bones meeting flesh and grunts of pain filled the air, punctuated by the occasional crash of a barstool being knocked over in the fray.
In a last-ditch effort, Piston reached for an abandoned pool cue. As insane as it was, Trigger let him swing, deflecting the blow but still taking a hit to the upper thigh because Piston was so unsteady. Trigger reached for the stick without hesitation, yanking forward as he did, sending Piston crashing to the ground.
The pain and surprise in Piston’s eyes were mirrored by everyone in the clubhouse, who watched in shock and awe as the fight took an unexpected turn. Trigger seized the opportunity, delivering a final blow that knocked Piston out cold.
The room was silent for a beat. The only sound was the heavy breathing of the combatants and the hum of electricity in the air. Trigger turned to Harley, his gaze softening as he took in her defiant expression.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle as he approached the bar.
Harley nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
Trigger’s lips curved into a tired smile as he brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle. “Anytime.”
As the tension in the room began to ease, the music slowly returned, its driving beat serving as a backdrop to the aftermath of the fight. The clubhouse, just a scene of chaos for a few seconds, now held a different energy.
Trigger accepted his cut and his gun from Axel, slipping both back on. The second they were in place, Harley held out another beer to him.
“That one is on the house.”
He chuckled as he took the bottle and downed a good swig. Several members of Rebel Kings came forward to pick up Piston off the floor.
Ox, their V.P. stopped near Trigger. “Sorry about that show of disrespect. Piston is a reliable road captain, but he can be a bit of a hot head.”
“It’s not me you need to apologize to,” Trigger replied. “It’s my woman. While she’d not wear a cut with my name on it, everyone around here knows she’s mine. Make sure Piston is aware of that when he comes around and that he apologizes to her.”
He didn’t take his gaze off Harley the entire time he made the public claim. When Harley agreed, he knew the tides had turned. Now he just had to make sure her ass didn’t run.
