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The group parted, giving him access to the ladies. The first thing he saw was Brooke’s scowl directed his way. She didn’t appreciate his opinion of her new, ritzy friend.
Too fucking bad.
“Jesus, you can be a dick sometimes,” Pulse muttered as he hovered over Olivia like a mother hen.
“For fuck’s sake, what’s the big de… what the fuck?” Who the hell put their hands on her? Christ, Deke would kick his ass for letting his sister get hurt. And rightfully so.
Olivia sat on a barstool with her head tilted up as Pulse examined three round bruises ringing her neck like some fucked-up necklace. “I’m fine!” she said with a huff. “Why won’t anyone believe that I’m fine? Seriously, it’s just a few bruises. I’ll live.”
“It’s not that we don’t believe you,” Pulse answered as he ran a finger over her throat.
Scott clenched his fists as the absurd urge to rip his brother’s hand away plagued him. He wanted to be the one to make sure she wasn’t hurt. Hell, he shouldn’t have let her be in a situation where she’d be injured in the first place, if for no other reason than to honor Deke’s memory.
God, he was a shitty friend.
He glanced at Curly, who had to have cracked a tooth with how hard his jaw was clamped. Beside him, Brooke worried her lip as she watched Olivia.
“There’s important shit on your neck, sweetheart. Just lemme do a quick check to make sure nothing vital is injured.” Pulse winked, and Scott’s hackles rose.
Charming asshole.
“Be happy I’m not making you go to the ER.” He probed around for a few moments, asking her to swallow. Eventually, he nodded and backed away. “You’re good, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? The winks? “For fuck’s sake,” Scott muttered.
“What was that?” Pulse asked with a smirk.
Scott glared at him. “Nothing.”
Olivia lowered her chin and shot him a haughty glare that made his dick plump and his stomach revolt. Bitch mode activated. Yeah, she was fucking fine. Not that he’d tolerate bruises on any woman. He shuddered as the memory of his sister’s bruised and battered body tried to work its way into his mind. It fueled his rage to incendiary levels. “What the fuck happened?” he ground out.
“Rag and Dante from Curly’s old club were harassing us,” Brooke said. “They didn’t really say anything. Just wanted us to let Curly know they’re thinking about him.”
Those pieces of shit. Narrowing his eyes, he swooped his gaze back to Olivia. Fuck it, he had to know for himself. He walked until he was within touching distance and grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger. As he tilted her head, she met his stare with one of her own. It dared him to make a big deal about the bruising. His lips quirked. The pretty princess had grit. And a backbone. Deke would be proud. Scott was too. Just a smidge. Not that he’d admit it to her in a million years.
“So what happened to your throat? Dante get pissed at you for telling him to pack sand because his boots weren’t Lou Berts or whatever the fuck?”
“Louboutins?” Brooke asked around a laugh as Olivia gave him a death glare.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Curly asked with a scrunched forehead.
“They’re shoes, babe.” Brooke still chuckled as she patted Curly’s arm. “Very, very expensive shoes.”
“Why would bikers wear them?” Lock looked about as confused as Curly.
“They wouldn’t.” Olivia’s voice didn’t hold any of the humor the others did. “Scott thinks I’m an elitist who won’t talk to someone based on the price of their footwear.”
“Pretty sure I never used the fucking word elitist,” he said, mimicking her uppity tone. Fuck, he hated it when she spoke like that. Worse than nails on a chalkboard. Little did she know his boots were his pride and joy, costing upward of a few hundred hard-earned bucks. Fuck, this woman got under his skin. To make matters worse, aside from the damn bruises, she looked as polished and put together as usual, which only made him want to mess her up.
And that had his cock waking up.
The traitor.
“Despite what Spec thinks, I don’t judge people for what they wear. The guy was disgusting. He smelled like meat and kept pawing at me.” She kept her pissed-off gaze on him as she spoke, daring him to contradict her.
Pawing at her? Scott clenched his jaw. Dante would pay for that a hundred times over.
“He wanted to know my name. You may think I’m a piece of fluff, but I’m not stupid. I refused to give him my name. He grabbed my throat and squeezed until I had no choice but to tell him. When I did, he released me.”
To keep from tearing the room apart with his bare hands, Scott clenched his teeth and counted. “So,” he said when he got to seven. Ten required more self-restraint than he possessed. “He got your name anyway, and you got a nasty purple necklace for your trouble. You’re right. You’re a genius.”
