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“Hey, Grady.” I curl a finger, instructing him to lean over the bar and come closer. “You know those guys?”
I nod toward the trio.
“Nah, never seen them before. Why?” Grady shrugs his big shoulders. “Guess I should see if they need more coffee. The old guy said he wanted to fill up a thermos for the road. Can’t imagine they plan to go far in this mess.”
I spin my stool all the way around so I can get a better look at them.
Yeah, there’s something seriously off here, no question.
The bald guy seems to be doing most of the talking, running his mouth like he’s the center of attention. The girl keeps shaking her head. The old guy looks thoroughly pissed, like he’d enjoy nothing better than ringing Baldy’s neck, but between his coughing and age, he doesn’t have it in him.
I don’t like this shit. I hate bullies, thugs, or scum-of-the-earth types throwing their weight around.
Whatever else I don’t know about their situation, I know Baldy over there is all three.
“Ridge,” Tobin says with a warning tone, gently jostling my shoulder with his elbow.
He must see the hawkish look in my eye.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything,” I tell him, already planting my feet firmly on the floor.
Then the bald fuck grabs the woman’s wrist.
Change of plans.
“Oh, hell no,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
Grady gives me a concerned look, but it’s already too late.
I’m up, barreling toward them before my brain has a chance to catch up with my stride.
There’s a reason I can’t stand to see some towering ogre jerk a lady around like she’s his toy poodle. And right now, that reason comes back to me in hot, angry red flashes screaming do something!
I know it’s none of my business.
I know it’s ill-advised.
I know Tobin’s about to have a cow—probably a whole damn herd—but he knows we’re throwing down when anybody this dumb punches my magic button.
In seconds, I’m standing next to their table, planting a hand firmly on the goon’s shoulder.
“Let her go,” I snarl.
“Huh? This ain’t your rodeo, cowboy,” the goon says, glaring at the woman. “How ’bout you mind your own damn—”
How about no?
I grab his wrist so hard, bone shifts under my fingers. It’s the same hand he’s using to hold on to hers. I dig my fingertips deep into his flesh, bruising muscle and nerves, applying a cruel, relentless pressure until he’s forced to release her.
Still controlling his muscles with my grip, I lift his hand. “You’ve got no clue where your business ends and mine begins. Want to find out?”
His face becomes a frozen snarl, deep lines twisting that mess of ink up his cheek. It’s like watching a chessboard being twisted in half.
He pulls back his other hand, fixing to take a swing at me.
Bad move.
Growling, I dig my fingers into his neck with the hand still on his shoulder, deep into his nerves.
For some reason, most people think violent nerve pinches are fables. But if you know the right technique…
It’s hard to suppress a satisfied grin.
His head twitches uncontrollably. He tries to sputter out a word, but it dies in his mouth.
Seconds later, his whole upper body is a jerking, confused mess.
“This is what I call a sleeper hold,” I whisper. “I’ve made it my specialty. You have about ten seconds to decide if you want to spend the next two hours on the floor or listen to what I have to say.”
The prick’s dark eyes blink, stunned and confused.
“Your funeral,” I growl, beginning to count off precious seconds. “Five…four…three…”
“A-all right! You fuck,” he gasps out.
I relax my hold ever so slightly, enough to keep him awake but still under my control.
Finally, I turn to the girl, who looks like she’s staring down a Mack truck flying dead at her.
“You know this guy?” I ask.
She shakes her head slowly, too dazed to speak.
“His name’s Jackknife,” the old man says cautiously. “Jackknife Pete.”
I can’t help it, a chuckle bellows out of me. They might as well call him Two Inch Dick.
“Jackknife Pete, huh?” I mutter, letting his hand fall limply to his side.
Jackknife?
In one fluid jerk, I reach down, flipping up his right pant leg. I find exactly what I’d expected.
A concealed blade. A long one in a leather sheath attached to his boot. Some people are so predictable, they make every bad movie archetype recycled a thousand times look original.
I rip the knife out and toss it behind me, where I know Tobin will retrieve it.
“Do you want him here?” I ask the woman.
“No. Not really,” she answers.
“Who the hell are you?” Jackknife Pete asks, wiping the corner of his mouth. I guess he’s reached the rabid drool stage of anger. “Why are you butting in where you don’t belong? You stupid?”
Hardly, but it looks like I let my hold slip too much. Shame.
