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“Hey, Rooster.” The huge man pulled him in for a hug, and Dalton clapped him on the back. In all the important ways, Rooster had been more of a father to him than his own.
“The prodigal son returns.” Rooster stepped back and beamed down at him. “Buff, look who it is. D-Boy’s back. And he’s all fancied up too.”
Buffalo, the treasurer and Dalton’s godfather, walked up to Dalton. “In case you forgot, we don’t gotta dress code here.” He pulled Dalton in for a rib-cracking hug.
“Been a long time. Guess I forgot.” Dalton hated that his eyes burned just a little bit as he hugged Buffalo back. Hated even more how much this felt like a homecoming.
But how could it feel like anything else when he’d grown up in this bar? How many years had he and Cat spent living out of the back room on a blow-up mattress while their father was off doing God knows what to God knows who? Too many to count.
“BA’s gonna shit himself when he gets a load of you.” Rooster pulled him in for another hug, then glanced back at Heath. “Aren’t you the Deuce?”
Heath shot him an affable grin, even as his eyes remained focused on the door to the bar. “Sure am.”
Rooster nodded in the general direction of the front door. “I hope you’re here for your sister-in-law. She’s a firecracker. She broke BA’s nose. He can’t decide if he wants to kill her or marry her.”
Holy shit. Who the hell was this woman, and how the hell had she managed to break BA’s nose? Furthermore, how the hell was she still alive? BA had killed men for doing much less.
Dalton threw open the door with a renewed sense of urgency. No way in hell was he letting Heath’s wife or sister-in-law die in this piece-of-shit bar. The place had already seen more than enough of its share of death.
But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and smoky haze, he couldn’t quite believe what he saw. A woman—Lyric, or possibly Harmony—was standing on the pool table in a black leather mini and bitch boots, waving around the leg of a broken barstool like a club. Surrounding her were all of the members of Bastards of Hell, except Rooster and Buff. Each one looked half like they wanted to tear her limb from limb and half like they wanted to run for the hills.
“Christ, Harm, what the hell?” Heath yelled at the woman on the table. “Where’s my wife?”
“Lyric pussed out and locked herself in the bathroom.” She pointed her club and shot a death glare at a bleeding BA. “Bring it, big guy.”
BA growled, but he didn’t move. Still, he was tracking her every move, and that made Dalton extremely uncomfortable. He, more than anyone, knew that BA was fast and mean and deadly.
Determined to avoid bloodshed—at least of the Wright sister variety—Dalton walked up behind BA and asked, “What’s going on?”
BA turned around, and the anger in his face turned to suspicion. “Well, hello, little brother. Long time no see.”
“Who the hell are you?” Harm demanded, waving her club at him like she thought it would actually protect her.
“Dalton Mane, I’m a friend of your brother-in-law.” He didn’t say any more. There’d be time for explanations later, when he wasn’t terrified BA was going to murder this woman. But now that he had Harmony’s attention, he continued, “I’d hold out my hand for you to shake, but you look a little busy at the moment.”
Heath’s sister-in-law was really something else. Dalton tried not to notice how sexy she was, but it was difficult to notice anything else, even as she waved that club around. She was built. Really, really built. Large, full breasts, a tiny waist, and legs that would have made a supermodel jealous—especially when encased in those black leather bitch boots.
And her tattoos—he’d spent years dating women with pale, perfect skin, years telling himself that tattoos didn’t do it for him. Looking at Harmony Wright, he couldn’t help thinking that he’d been lying to himself all those years. Because her tattoos were gorgeous. Vibrant, exotic, and dangerous, they added a whole lot to her already prodigious sex appeal.
Then again, he’d always had a thing for dangerous.
“And why are you here?” Harmony’s eyes darted from man to man, clocking everyone’s movements, even as she spoke directly to him.
“Stay out of this, little brother.” BA’s voice was slow and even, which Dalton knew from experience was a very bad thing. It meant that he was about to lose his shit. “She broke my goddamn nose. She has to pay.”
“Don’t you think you’d be better off taking care of it than standing here hassling a frightened woman?”
“I’m not frightened,” Harmony squawked. “I’m pissed. If he comes any closer he’s going to see just how pissed I am.”
Goddammit. Didn’t this woman see what kind of danger she was in? Dalton shot her a look that told her to keep her mouth shut so he could get her out of this. He could tell the look had been received—and rejected—by the fact that she got even more pissed off. And when she opened her mouth to say God only knew what, he decided to hell with it. There was only one way to stop this, and it was time to take matters into his own hands.
“I’m not your brother. I never was.” Dalton waited until BA was looking straight at him, then he punched his stepbrother in the kidneys, grabbed his hair, and smashed his face into the pool table. Quick as lightning, he wrenched the club from Harmony’s grasp, scooped her up, and threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
“Put me down.” Harm wriggled and tried to kick her way free, but he held on tight.
He headed out the front door. Once in the parking lot, he yelled back to Rooster, “Tell them not to come after me. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”
He might not be in a biker gang, but
