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“That’s what I said,” he narrowed his eyes. “And watch what you say to me, bitch.”
The irony was not lost on either one of us.
“Do as I say, not as I do,” I murmured to Simi.
She snickered, which only incensed the drunk dude more.
“I’m going to fuckin’ ruin you.” He lurched forward.
I caught him before he could take a single step, twisted him around, and pushed him toward the door.
He almost went sprawling, but his buddies were there to catch him.
“I don’t fuckin’ think so,” one of them said, coming for me.
But that’s when the woman beside me brandished a weapon.
“You will stay the hell away from us,” she said, a broken beer bottle firmly in her hand.
The tinkling of glass hitting the floor followed that statement.
A throat cleared, but I didn’t dare take my gaze away from the drunks, now staring at us with worry.
“Do you need our help, little sister?” an amused female voice said with delight.
I chanced a glance behind me to see a woman with elegant features staring at the men with a look of so much hate that it surprised me.
“No,” Simi said just as security came from somewhere in the back. “They were just leaving.”
They sure the hell were.
I waited until they were almost to the door to turn and face the women, Simi and her broken beer bottle included.
I gave the beer bottle an assessing glance and grinned.
“So I have anger issues,” she grumbled as she placed it on the bar top. “Sue me.”
The ladies that were now crowded around us started to laugh. “You, Simi, with anger issues? No way!”
I had a feeling there was more to the story, but now that the men were gone, they’d gone back to wherever they’d been hiding.
“Those are your sisters?” I asked, watching them leave.
“Those are them,” she confirmed as she settled back on her barstool.
“They look nothing like you,” I said, remembering three of them well.
They were quite beautiful, just like her. But all of their hair colors were different, not to mention their skin tones.
“We all have different mothers,” she admitted. “It’s not a surprise, really. Dad was a very bland man who had all recessive traits. We take after our mothers in almost every way.”
“Interesting,” I said. “My sister and I look like twins. But neither one of us looks like our mom or our dad. I guess a perfectly good blend of both.”
“I wish,” she laughed. “Sometimes, it would be nice to be able to tame this hair.”
I looked at her hair, then smiled. “I like your hair.”
Actually, I liked her hair so much I wanted it running down the length of my body. I wanted to bury my hands in her hair. I wanted to twist one of those curls around my finger, then pull her to me so I could kiss her.
“Well, you’re likely the only one.” She winced. “Anyway”—she looked at me pointedly—”where did those come from?”
“Those?” I asked, confused.
She gestured to my arms.
“You have tattoos,” she muttered. “Where the hell did all of those come from?”
I chuckled. “All over the place. I started getting them when I was deployed the first time. My first two tattoos were at questionable locations, and I decided that if I was going to get tattoos, I needed to make sure they were done by reputable people and not out of backyard garages.”
“I noticed that you kept your gloves on,” she said. “I just assumed you got cold all the time.”
“Well. They do get cold. But also, I think you’ve seen me for all of ten minutes at a time, and my gloves just never had the opportunity to come off before,” I told her as I picked up my gloves. “Do tattoos bother you?”
She was already shaking her head. “No, I quite like them. They make you seem not so…buttoned up.”
I flashed her a smile and patted my gloves, then dropped them down onto the counter.
“The gloves are just something I always bring with me because I ride a motorcycle,” I admitted. “It’s my primary form of transportation, and at this point, it’s just a habit to have them on.”
“Even in the summer?” she asked.
“Even in the summer,” I stretched out my hands. “These puppies couldn’t perform if they were injured in any way. So…yes, I wear gloves. Fingers are easily injured, and you don’t realize just how much and how easily it can happen. But I learned this lesson the hard way. I had to lay my bike down a couple of summers ago when someone pulled out in front of me. Long story short, my hand dragged against the asphalt for a couple yards before I could comprehend what was happening and move it. Didn’t change the fact that for the next three weeks, my hands were so fucking raw that I couldn’t work in the kitchen.”
