Page 10 of Striker’s Rebel

His hands are still on her.

That makes him mine.

I hook a fist in the front of his shirt, rip him away from her, and slam him against the side of the truck hard enough to rattle the metal. He barely gets a breath before his buddy comes at me from the left.

Sloppy punch.

I move my head, bury my fist in his stomach, then catch his jaw when he doubles over.

He hits the asphalt.

One.

The third one charges me instead of backing off like somebody with a functioning survival instinct.

Two punches handle him.

Two.

The first asshole pushes away from the truck.

I turn just as he swings.

Anger makes men predictable.

I catch his wrist, drive my fist into his ribs, then plant another one into his face. He staggers, blood appearing beneath his nose.

Still standing.

Persistent motherfucker.

I hit him again.

He drops beside his friends.

Three.

Silence settles over the parking lot.

I flex my hand once and look at the men scattered across the pavement. None of them are getting back up quickly, which means I finally have time to deal with the reason I got involved in the first place.

Her.

I turn.

And fuck.

Inside the bar, I only got pieces of her between conversations with Pete. A glimpse when she leaned across the counter to hand someone a drink. Another when she was arguing with the asshole now bleeding on the pavement. Enough to know she was curvy, pretty, and entirely too distracting.

Up close is worse.

Pretty hair falls around a heart-shaped face, messy now from the struggle. Her mouth is full and pink, the lower lip slightly parted while she catches her breath. Cute little nose. Soft body under a black shirt and jeans that hug hips my hands immediately want to learn.

Then she looks straight at me.

Baby-blue eyes.

Christ.