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“Omaha. Omaha. Omaha.”
“Nice try, but I’m no Peyton Manning.”
“Few are.” I tip my head as if it should be obvious.
“I’d be offended if I weren’t faster than he is, not to mention younger and hotter.”
“Meh.” I shrug. “I guess.”
“You guess?” He turns me and leads me back the few feet to the team, talking over my head. “I might ask the paramedics to check you for a concussion. Your brain got scrambled when you fell.” He follows this with a mumbled, “You guess… Definitely some kind of head trauma. Maybe even eyesight issues too. Can’t see straight.”
He can’t see the smile that he brings to my face or know the relief I feel from his ridiculous, inane ramblings.
The club manager appears on the floor, trying to sort things out. I can only assume fights are bad for business, especially one that warrants turning the house lights on and stopping the music, much less bringing in the cops. He seems to rush, trying to throw his weight around as if to make everyone cower.
He stops short as sheriff’s deputies enter the fray, hands on the radios at their shoulders and hovering at their hips.
“Matty?” one asks, his face lifting to Arthur Mattis. “What’s up?”
Art drops the creepy man he’s been holding with his arms pinned behind his back and steps around him. He does that weird, man shake-grip thing and tugs the man into a hug, slapping his back, before the officer steps backward toward his crew.
“I’m assuming this guy—” Art nods at creeper man. “Is too smart to run with y’all around.”
Creeper man slices his eyes to Art before leveling them on me. The hate in them is chilling.
The deputy turns to his brothers in uniform. “If you don’t know Mattis, he’s our hometown defensive tackle. He’s also a great friend to LEOs. He organizes a toy drive at Christmas for kids at the local hospitals.” He turns back to Art. “How many people participated this year?”
“Motorcycles in the toy run? Three hundred or so this year. Donated toys, thousands at least. I had to hire someone to help. It’s growing. Appreciate your help, Dean. I really do.”
The general manager turns his wide-eyed stare to Art, and I can see the light finally dawn. He twists in a circle, looking from face to face with a handful of NFL players. It’s as if the cartoon dollar-sign eyes pop from his eye sockets. He must know he can leverage this and immediately stops acting pushy.
“Officers, please do what you need and stay as long as you’d like. Soft drinks, water, whatever you’d like, are at the bar. Please let me know how I can help.”
One offers a curt nod. “We’ll let you know.” When he turns back to the group, he continues, “What happened here?”
I step forward and extend a hand. “I’m Olivia Morgan.” The officer takes in my outfit, and I realize how little credibility I must have in these clothes and a pink wig. I tug it off, fluffing my long brown hair so it cascades down and provides some coverage of my skin. “I was dancing here with my friends and that man wouldn’t take no for an answer. When I declined his advances, he grabbed me by the neck and told me I was asking for it by the way I was dressed and he would ‘give it to me good’ for being a dick tease.”
There’s a growl behind me as a warm palm lands on my back, spanning me hip to hip.
Layton stands to my right and extends a hand. “Layton Ranger. Miss Morgan is the team’s physical therapist. When I saw her being harassed, I stepped in to remove her from the situation.”
The deputy looks over my head to who I can only assume is the creep. “And you would be?”
There’s not a word from behind me.
“Sir, I can arrest you and book you to get your name. Or you can answer me.”
“Gerald Tustin.”
“And, Mr. Tustin, is what Miss Morgan said accurate?”
“No. She was dancing with me, practically climbing me—”
There’s a cough and a “you wish” from one of the players behind me. I can’t determine who, but I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
“She was climbing me, asking me to make it good for her.” The hand at my back flexes. “And I told her I would. Then she tried to play innocent.”
“And you grabbed her, leaving a handprint on her neck?” the man next to me growls.
