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“Goddamnit!” he shouts. “Do you know how expensive that shit is?”
“You pushed me into it!”
“Get up and clean this shit up. Now!”
He takes a step forward and I shrink back, but he stops with his hand cocked back and ready to smack me. He’s not looking at me anymore though, he’s looking to the doorway. I turn and see Hawk standing there. He’s staring at me but then turns his eyes slowly to Hammerhead, a frown crossing his lips.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asks.
CHAPTERNINE
“What the hell is going on here?” I snap.
“She broke some dishes,” Hammerhead explains. “I’m just tellin’ her to clean it up. You know how it is.”
“I don’t know how it is actually.”
“Yeah, well… this bitch needs to stop being so fuckin’ clumsy.”
Few things in this world piss me off faster than somebody abusing animals, children, or women. Seeing Hammerhead standing over the redhead with his arm cocked back like he’s going to slap her has me seeing red. It’s taking all my self-control to not wade in the beat the shit out of him right now. I don’t know what she did or said but nothing justifies a man twice her size beating on her.
I know this isn’t my business. This is Hammerhead’s deal, and I shouldn’t be mixing myself up in it. It’s not my responsibility or my problem. But I’m not about to just sit here and watch as he wails on a helpless woman.
“Don’t worry about it,” Hammerhead says. “Just doing some housekeeping.”
“I am worried about it. I worry about it when I see a grown-ass man beating’ on a woman half his size,” I reply.
“It’s not your business, Hawk,” he warns.
I clear my throat and step into the kitchen, never taking my eyes off Hammerhead’s. The shards of glass from all the broken dishes crunch under my boots and the closer I get to him, the more nervous he gets. Although he’s standing tall, he licks his lips nervously and swallows hard. I stop when I’m standing a foot or two away from him—and immediately regret getting that close to him.
“Jesus, bro. You stink,” I say, scrunching up my face. “When was the last time you took a fuckin’ shower?”
His expression shifts from one of ready outrage to one of red-faced embarrassment. He opens his mouth to reply but apparently can’t think of something to say because he closes his mouth again.
“Seriously, man. Go take a shower before we go. I don’t want to be dragging’ your musty, smelly ass around,” I tell him. “And don’t forget to put on some goddamn deodorant.”
He looks stunned and shocked—and ready to protest. But instead, he levels a withering glare at the woman before he turns and stalks out of the kitchen. I hear a door slam somewhere deeper in the clubhouse and chuckle to myself. Then I turn and look at the woman who’s still sitting on the floor, almost in stunned silence. I reach my hand out to her, but she recoils as if expecting me to smack her. But she seems to come back to herself pretty quickly then takes my hand, letting me help her to her feet.
For the first time, I look at her. Really look at her. She’s beautiful, but I already knew that. Now I can see the tiredness in her bright blue eyes; the emotion and fear twitching across her face. It’s obvious in the way that she backed away from me that she’s been through some hard times. But underneath it, I can see one hell of a strong woman in there. She reminds me of the girl next door, or maybe of that family I saw at the diner on my way down here. She doesn’t fit in this place. She should be in a nice house, cozying up to a fireplace with a book and a glass of wine. She should be out walking her dog in some nice suburban neighborhood. It’s amazing that she’s been able to maintain that air of almost innocence about her given the dire circumstances she’s living in. This life can make a person hard. It can amplify the rough edges while blunting the soft spots in a person’s soul. And those changes can manifest in a person’s appearance. It ages people and makes them look physically rougher.
But somehow, that hasn’t happened to her. At least, not yet. Maybe she hasn’t been in the life very long. That’s the only thing that makes sense to me. I’ve seen some women age a decade or more in the first couple of years they start running with a club. MC life, with all the drugs, hard drinking, and harder living, isn’t exactly a recipe for a healthy and youthful glow.
“What’s your name?” I ask. I know I need to tread gently here. I’m sure she has a pretty damn low opinion of biker guys. And given her situation, I don’t exactly blame her. But I need to show her I’m not a threat.
“M-Molly,” she whispers. “Molly Sanders.”
“Nice to meet you. You can call me Hawk.”
“I know. I heard Martin call you that.”
I laugh softly again. “He lets you get away with calling him Martin?”
“No. I only do it when he’s not around.”
“Smart girl,” I say. “Let me help you clean this up.”
“No, it’s all right. I got it.”
