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She should go check it out. Reassure herself the action was in Mal’s bunk, and then just go get ready for bed. Certainly wasn’t the first time she’d had to pop in earbuds blaring hard rock music to drown out the sounds of fucking. Definitely wouldn’t be the last either. Not with this bunch.
Swallowing hard, she made her feet move forward. She couldn’t figure out why she was nervous. Big deal, someone was screwing. It wasn’t as if she was some prude. Even if she had been, driving around a bunch of horny rockstars would’ve killed the last of it.
But the bus was her responsibility, and she wouldn’t wuss out now just because she couldn’t take a full breath or walk without her shoulder blades hurting from the pressure on her spine. She’d just ascertain the noisy banger wasn’t someone who didn’t have a right to be there and go take her shower and zone out.
Mal’s bunk was across from Ryan’s. Just a few more steps and she’d be able to see if—
“Oh, fuck yes,” a woman cried out.
Not Mal’s bunk. Two forms writhed in ecstasy—or their version of it anyway. They didn’t even bother to close the curtain all the way. A sheet barely covered the guy’s muscular back as he rutted wildly into the woman beneath him.
In Ryan’s bunk.
Chapter Eight
God, was that really him? It couldn’t be.
Denver opened her mouth, on the verge of shouting she didn’t know what, when a blur of movement from the back of the bus stole her words. A blinding amount of bare skin made her throw up a hand to block her eyes. Jesus.
The defensive move didn’t stop her from hearing the absolute roar of rage as the guy—Mal—pulled the naked dude with a floppy dick out of Ryan’s bed. The guy who was not Ryan.
Denver let out a shuddering breath. Not even close.
“You fucking bastard! How dare you come on her fucking bus with this bimbo and do this shit?” Mal pulled back his fist and plowed it straight into the man’s gut.
It was K-Jerk. Or Kirk. Whatever the hell his name was. The guy who’d ridden from New York upstate with Elle on the bus, headed for locations unknown. He’d been hammering into some groupie with black hair and deeply lined eyes while Elle was back at the hotel, waiting for him to arrive after he’d finished up whatever he’d claimed he had to do. Sweet, hopeful Elle.
“Goddamn bastard,” Denver muttered, rushing forward.
She was tempted to level a few blows of her own. Not that Mal seemed to need her help. T
he sound of his meaty fists ramming into pliable flesh filled Denver’s head, as did squealing groupie girl’s shouts of distress. She was already getting dressed, hauling on her denim mini dress and cowboy boots in between screeches. She didn’t make a move to help her lover.
Loyalty was a beautiful thing.
Denver balled up her fists and resisted the urge to enter the fray. Much as she wished she could offer her own paltry assistance in kicking the fucker’s ass.
Steward of the bus. Keeper of the peace, remember?
“Mal, enough.” Denver tried to grab Mal’s arm, but she couldn’t get a hold on him. The guy was built like a frigging wrestler. Huge and muscular and filled with enough fury to make a man end up dead.
Not on her bus. She wasn’t going to spend the night cleaning up the mess.
“Christ, Malachi, I said fucking stop!” Denver beat on Mal’s back for a full thirty seconds. When that got no response, she reached around him and grabbed a handful of the one thing sure to make him take notice.
Wrenching on his twig and berries, she held on even when he howled. And howl he did. He also let K-Jerk slump to the floor, a bruised, battered shell of a man.
Just as he deserved.
“Fuck you, Denver,” Mal said, kicking Elle’s dude aside as he braced an arm on the top bunk and cupped his wounded pride.
Probably not that wounded. Denver’s grip wasn’t anything to sneeze at, but she wasn’t used to wrestling with twenty-foot pythons as a rule.
Sweet lord.
Denver glanced at groupie girl—more accurately, at her backside as she scurried down the steps and out the door.
Rat escaping a shaking bus. That was a new fable she hadn’t heard before.
