Not trapping. Protecting her?
Every time she moved, he adjusted his stance, and her face grew increasingly close to thighs tucked inside black denim that must have been specifically tailored to his muscle definition. To get to her, the Brians would have to go through him. And there was…alotof him.
When she craned her neck up to look at him, there was a plain-as-day view of his abdomen beneath the thin hem of his shirt—not that she wanted to see it. It was just there. Past it, she glimpsed the lopsided smile that manifested on his face, ever the easygoing barkeep.
“You want something to drink?” he asked the Brians.
“Oh, is this a peanut-free bar?” Other Brian asked before Brian backhanded him in the belly to tell him to shut up.
“Let us have her,” Brian demanded. He stepped up to the bar, too close for Fletcher to see him, but she could hear the scrutinizing way his eyes narrowed. “Bertram isn’t worried about you.”
From this angle, Waylon’s smile twisted sideways. Arrogant as usual. “Flattered, truly.”
“But I am.”
The air in the room shifted so dramatically that Fletcher peeked around Waylon’s legs—and immediately wished she hadn’t. Brian’s ridiculous gun was inches away from Waylon’s chest.
And Waylon had never looked calmer. Did this dude ever break a sweat?
“I’m glad you turned your back on this company,” Brian spat. “You would have run the marketing program into the ground. I’m sure you’re used to everyone kissing your ass, but I refuse.”
“Unfortunate,” Waylon said. “My ass is highly kissable.”
The hand that wasn’t on the trigger reached across the bar and clenched a fistful of Waylon’s shirt. “You think I’m joking?”
At that, Waylon laughed. “No one would ever mistake you for funny, Russo.”
Brian thrust himself over the bar, hand reaching toward Waylon’s throat. Tranquilizer be damned. He moved like he wanted to watch the life sap from Waylon’s fully conscious eyes.
Fletcher was on her feet before she could talk herself out of saving Waylon. Without the machete that would have been really freaking handy right about now, she settled for the next best thing and snagged a bottle of rum off the shelf. It was vacation, after all.
She smashed the bottle against the countertop, little shards of spilled glass scattering. Maybe she shouldn’t have skipped thecompany outing to the Yankees game to make copies for the QBR. Her swing could use some help.
Other Brian was behind her without a moment’s notice, his arms coiling around her center and dragging her away. Fletcher kicked, fighting for purchase.
“Hasn’t anyone told you not to bring Captain Morgan to a gunfight?” he asked, so Fletcher rammed the sharp edge of her bottle into his thigh. With a pained howl, his grip faltered, hands flattening against his leg.
Waylon’s skin grew increasingly red, but he landed a solid punch against Brian’s jaw, and that was enough to convince the marketer to release his choke hold. As Brian’s glasses soared off his face, Waylon made a fast break for the pool table, brandishing one of the cues like a naginata.
Too fast, Brian lunged toward Waylon. Fletcher couldn’t have stopped it, but she saw it coming. The way Waylon had the cue reared, tip aimed too high. How the fur rug scooched beneath Brian’s Corporate Hipster Reeboks, and he lost his footing. When the arc of his trajectory misfired, and the cue speared toward his face.
An animalistic scream ripped through Brian as Waylon and the cue staggered backward. On the end of the cue, poked through the middle, with a little, wiggly tadpole tail hanging off it was Brian’s. Entire. Eyeball.
“See,” Waylon said, greener than usual, “that looks nothing like an olive.”
Fletcher gagged. Therapy was no longer going to be strong enough. She needed a lobotomy.
Blood gushed from Brian’s head, but there must have been so much epinephrine coursing through his body that he hadn’t seemed to notice yet. Through gritted teeth, he growled and pulled the tranquilizer’s scope up to his face, pinching his eye closed to take aim.
Which didn’t work. For obvious eyeless reasons.
Peeling his remaining eye back open, Brian bypassed the sight altogether and stalked across the room to press the gun against Fletcher’s chest this time. She was no expert, but a tranquilizer dart directly to the heart sounded a lot like sure and sudden death.
Also, this close, his oozing eye hole made her seriously want to vomit.
“Get away from her.” Waylon ditched the pool cue, squaring his shoulders for a fight.
Despite the blood pouring from his leg, Other Brian found the strength to waddle into Waylon’s path. “Stop right there. We’ve got direct orders from the boss. She comes with us.”
