Page 69 of The Devil’s Feather

A grey-bearded biker leered at me, and I ducked behind Ross.

The man drunkenly staggered closer. “Hey, don’t be like that, sweetheart. I just want to say hello.”

Ross held up a palm. “Brother, this is Rafael Nazim’s girlfriend. You sure you want to go there?” He jerked his chin toward my bloody, pacing giant.

The biker’s eyes rounded. “Shit, sorry!” He scurried away like a cockroach under a kitchen light.

I patted my friend’s arm. “Very butch, Ross. I’m impressed. I thought it was going to be like that time the guy yelled at us and you threw the shopping bag.”

“Oh, come on, I was just startled! So, about those brainwaves.” Ross gave me a pained smile. “Do we think Bear Daddy is dead or…?”

Rafael finally waved us over. His lip was swollen, and blood had dried in streaks from his nose to his chest. I glanced around, but no one else approached him. Strange, given how long he had been coming here. Were they all afraid of him? Ross hovered behind me.

“You were incredible.” I threw my arms around Rafael, heedless of all the blood and sweat. “Are you hurt at all?”

One corner of his mouth curled into a wince. “I may have some broken ribs…”

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” I immediately released him and stepped back.

He smiled a tired smile, raised a hand to touch my face, and stopped. Blood crusted his knuckles. He grabbed what I hoped was a clean rag out of a bucket and wiped his hands.

“What about your nose?” To my untrained eye, it was a concerning amount of blood.

“It is not broken.” Rafael turned his head, stopped up one nostril, and blew a bloody glob into the rag. I cringed. God, that was gross. He repeated it on the other side.

“That was brutal. I’m really glad it wasn’t you on the mat getting your face punched through the floor. Why did they let you hit that man for so long?”

“Scared to stop me,” he said quietly, almost subdued. “I have swung on refs who tried to intervene. Knocked one out, seriously injured another.”

Ross gasped. “Whoa, that’s fucked.”

‘Scared to stop me’. The words rattled around in my head.

“Did you kill my Italian husband?” Ross crossed his arms and stood on his tiptoes, looking over the crowd for the fallen bear.

Rafael blinked. “Boris? He is Russian.” He stretched out his hands and fingers. “And no, that man is a concrete block. He will be fine. The medics said he is conscious and hates me more than ever.”

“Why does he hate you?” The words fluttered out before I could bite them back.

“Because I have knocked his stubborn ass out three times now.” Rafael shrugged. “Some people refuse to learn.”

Ross shifted his weight, resting a hand on one hip, maximum sass loaded. “So, it looks like you have a hard time coming down from that bloodlust when you’re worked up. What if you lose control and hurt Elaine?”

Rafael wiped his face with the same rag and spat bloody saliva into the bucket. “I would never hurt her.”

“But what if you do?” My friend pressed.

His courage surprised me. I had no idea Ross cared so much. We’d been drinking buddies after work and liked all the same games. He’d dragged me across the peninsula shopping. We’d shared stories about shitass men. But he wasn’t the one I called crying when I needed help. Nor was I that person for him. Yet here he was.

Rafael exhaled slowly. “If I ever hurt her, I will kill myself.”

20

WIDE UNCLASP THE TABLES OF THEIR THOUGHTS

For once, Rafael let me drive, though he still chose the music—mellow jazz. It took five solid minutes to move the seat, the wheel, and the mirrors to accommodate my much shorter stature, but the bus-like SUV drove fine. Luckily, the parking spots under his building were large.

I kept quiet on the ride back, replaying all the violence. It suited Rafael. His eyes were a million miles away⁠1 as he shoved three enormous shawarma wraps into his face and drank about a gallon of water with electrolytes.