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His glare lingers for a moment longer, his face a mask of frustration and anger. Then he turns, stomping out of the room and locking the door behind him.
Asshole.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
Nova
“She’s not here either,” Olly growls after more than an hour, combing through another park for any sign of Maggie. He rolls his broad shoulders, stiff and full of tension after hours of riding, yet his gaze continues to scan the area. “What are the odds she’d come here?”
“I don’t know,” I admit reluctantly. The truth is that despite my thoughts about Maggie, despite everything that’s happened between us, I don’t really know her. Don’t know where she’d hang out if she went back to L.A. Hell, maybe she got in a taxi and booked it.
“I just don’t fucking know, man.” And that shit pisses me off. Makes me feel like I’m losing someone. Again.
Tank says, “She couldn’t have gotten that far if she’s walkin’,” glaring at me with a no-nonsense expression on his face. He’s as tired of this as Olly is, but I know they’re with me to the end.
Fuck! I don’t want to think about Maggie walking the streets all alone. I’d feel better if I knew she grabbed an Uber or something. “I’m not going back without her,” I growl at Tank, my anger mixing with fear, making me feel like I’m losing my shit.
My phone buzzes, and it’s Wild Man, so I answer it. “What?”
“Yo, Nova. We got a problem.”
I frown. “You hear something about Maggie?” My heart races and the blurring around the edge of my vision intensifies.
“Yeah. She’s here now, and the bitch is causing all kinds of trouble. Get your ass back here now and handle it.”
Relief washes over me. “On my way.”
“Hurry, Ace is fuckin’ pissed, man.” The call ends abruptly and though I feel better, anger still surges through me that she even left in the first place.
“This is our turf.” A masculine voice sounds behind us, and, together we all turn to face the speaker and his sorry band of brothers hovering behind him. “Yeah, you heard me. Our turf.”
By his dirty blond hair, I see right away the guy is young. Old enough to know better, but young compared to me. “And who the fuck are you?” My frustration is disproportionate to what’s happening, but I don’t give a fuck. I step forward, shaking off my tingling arms. “Don’t make me ask again.”
The blond flashes a toothy grin. “And who the fuck is asking?”
“I’m askin’ motherfucker.”
He growls and takes another step forward, flashing brass knuckles as if that’s supposed to scare me.
This young fucker has picked the wrong day to mess with me. Between my anxiety and Maggie’s absence, I need somewhere to channel all this unspent energy.
“Why waste words?” I get in his face, smiling as I pull out my sixteen-inch head-cracking baton and smack it against his head.
“Son of a bitch!” His four friends look on in disbelief before they realize they need to do something about it.
“You want a piece of this?” I smile, feeling wild and maybe a little bit crazy as I stare at the wannabe troublemakers. Fists start flying fast and furious, blood and saliva flying through the air as every hand meets its intended target.
My head snaps back from a well-placed jab, and I stumble back as a different asshole advances, but I’m ready for him. I protect my face as he raises his brass knuckled-fists, and lunges forward.
“You’re a dead man,” he growls, landing a gut punch.
It’s a glancing blow that has no effect on me. “Is this me, dead motherfucker?” I land blow after blow with the steel baton against his back, his ribs, and the back of his head. “Is this your fucking turf? Answer me!” I keep hitting him, taking my frustration out on this violent stranger. “Well,saysomething!”
He stops fighting back, curling into a ball like the fucking bitch boy he is, and finally, I stop, spitting on his limp form before checking on my brothers. To my left, Tank is handling himself fine, but Olly is taking a lot of kicks to the head and back from two assholes.
Armed with my stick, I crack the redheaded one on the back of the knees, watching as he falls to the ground. I smile and put the baton away, and before he can get to his feet, I turn him over and straddle his chest, pounding my fists into his face over and over.
The sting of my knuckles against bones unleashes a relief I haven’t felt in a long time. My fists keep flying uncontrollably, blow after blow, as the past and the present blur together, enemies indistinguishable from patients. Countless names I can’t remember and faces I’ll never forget, and I banish them all with my fists until the man beneath me is a heap of useless skin and bones.
