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Connor pushes off Derrick, who straightens quickly, trying desperately to act like nothing happened even as he cradles his broken hand. Suddenly able to breathe again, Derrick finds his balls, which had crawled up deep into his body cavity. He looks to me, smug arrogance returning to his sneering expression as he gestures wildly with his uninjured hand, scant inches from me. “Guess I did have it wrong. It’s not you who needs to be on a leash, bitch. It’s him.”
Connor moves fast as a flash again, the heel of his hand catching Derrick under the nose and sending the back of his head rapping against the brick side of the restaurant. Derrick drops, blood gushing instantly, and he tries in vain to cover the mess.
“Fuck,” he hisses, already sounding stuffed up from the blood dripping onto the concrete. I guess his nose hurts more than his finger because he doesn’t pay the dangling appendage any attention.
“Don’t touch her,” Connor reminds him. Derrick didn’t, but he came close. Too close for Connor’s liking, though I’m not sure what that means. Connor crowds in close to Derrick but talks to the entire small group of men. “And don’t fuck with Manuel. He’s a good kid. Or you’ll wish I were the one coming back.” The smile that sweeps across Connor’s face is pure wickedness, like he can’t wait to see what malevolence awaits Derrick if he so much as looks at Manuel wrong. His words might not scare the men, and his beating up Derrick might not either, but that creepy look definitely has them pissing in their pants.
Without waiting for any confirmation from the trio of kitchen dipshits, Connor takes my hand, firmly but gentler than I would’ve expected from his cold, vicious manner with Derrick.
Following along behind him, we walk through the kitchen, through the dining room where he tosses Manuel a chin nod, and out into the parking lot. He leads me to the passenger side of his truck, opening the door for me. It’s not gentlemanly and kind. Oh, no, once the door is open, he virtually shoves me inside before slamming the door again.
Connor gets in and starts the truck, placing his hands on the steering wheel. He’s squeezing the leather wrapped wheel so hard, his hands are turning white. Finally, he lets out a deep breath, staring at his hands like they don’t quite belong to him.
“Let me have it,” he demands.
I blink in confusion. “What?”
“For the shut up comment. Let me have it.”
Is that what this is about? He just fucked this Derrick guy up, and he’s worried about that comment? “To be clear,” I tell him quietly, almost amusedly, “you told me to be quiet, not shut up. Same, but really different too.”
Connor looks at me in shock. “Either way, I’m sorry. But I just needed you to be quiet for one minute while I got the info we need.”
I was taught that an apology isn’t an apology if it’s followed by a ‘but’. In this instance, I’m not sure that’s true. Connor does seem sorry, and maybe he’s a little bit right. He was definitely the better choice to get the info.
Plus, he said ‘we’ . . . not him, not me, but we! And that alone makes the ‘but’ seem like a teeny, tiny three-letter word I can ignore. This time.
“Apology accepted. Now let’s go to the pawn shop.” I pause, chuckling to myself. “That is something I never thought I’d say, especially on a date.”
Connor barks out a rough laugh. “This isn’t a date.”
I don’t argue, but he’s wrong. This is so a date. Maybe the best date I’ve ever been on, which might be sad to some, but I think it shows how awesome I am. Okay, and Connor too. Other than the thief thing, but he’s making that right as we drive down the street, so it probably . . . mostly doesn’t count.
Chapter 13
Connor
I’m a jumble of thoughts and confusing emotions as we drive the short quarter-mile down the street to the nearest pawn shop. On one hand, that asshole deserved everything I gave him and more.
Laying hands on a kid? Hell, breaking his finger and maybe his nose might have been a gift to Derrick. If JP had learned about what happened to his son, the consequences could have been fatal.
But was I doing it just for Manuel?
Deep down, I know the truth. I didn’t go off until Derrick started messing with Poppy, who is sitting, happy as a clam, in my fucking passenger seat like she didn’t watch me turn violent in a flash.
This is just ten kinds of wrong.
The pawn shop’s a sad looking affair, with dirty windows and an old-school fluorescent red and white ‘three balls’ sign. The awning is faded and torn in spots, and the yellow vinyl looks like it’s seen quite a few better days.
