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The guy turned red, sputtering.
“Touch her and die. Do not test me.”
The threats were delivered smoothly, succinctly, and Brett led me forward, leaning over to say, “He’s the kind of guy that needed to be put in his place or we’d have problems with him later on.”
I squeezed his hand, trusting him.
When we passed the first set of picnic tables, there were two empty ones on our right. The left was where all the bikers were lounging, and we got two steps before one of them shoved up to his feet. “Hey!”
Brett stopped, facing away. His hand tightened on mine, just briefly.
“Hey, man. He—”
Brett’s jaw clenched once before he swiftly faced the guy, and as he did, the biker stopped in his tracks, surprised by suddenly how in-his-face Brett was being. The biker was tall, but he still came one or two inches below Brett. Lean. Golden tan skin that glistened with a small amount of sweat. He wore a leather cut, nothing underneath showing a smooth and slightly ripped stomach with a few tattoos on his chest. His jeans looked well-worn and hung from his hips. Dark hair that was messily rumpled. A thick barbell pierced through one of his eyebrows. Dark eyes that were squinting as he held a beer up, a finger pointing toward Brett.
“That guy was a friend of yours?” Brett’s question threw him off.
The finger and beer dropped, and he raked a hand up the back of his head, bringing it toward the front through his hair. “Huh?”
Most of the bikers were watching our exchange, but I skimmed their faces. None looked disturbed. Most seemed curious.
Another biker got up from their table, an inch shorter than the first one, but thicker. He was solid.
Though, not as solid as Brett.
This one wore a white T-shirt under his cut. Baggy jeans. Chains hung down over the sides. This one had greasy blond hair and laughing brown eyes. He was white, but with a golden tan. His face was slightly too flat across the front to be considered handsome, but he had an arresting quality to him.
Also, the bad boy vibe was thick with both of these men.
Their entire table, even the women that were with them.
The guy who joined us slapped his buddy on the back, his hand staying and resting on his shoulder. “Shark, you don’t know this man.” He tipped his other hand toward Brett, the one also holding onto a beer bottle. He gave Brett the slightest bit of a nod, a coy smile tugging at his mouth. His eyes were sober, amusing.
Shark tensed, his chest drawing up. “I do too. I know I do. What’s your name? How do I know you?” A sudden short and menacing growl burst out of him. “I don’t like not knowing how I know you. Makes me think we’re enemies.” He began to shift his weight, his free hand reaching to his pocket.
“Oh! Whoa there, buddy.” The other one grabbed his hand, then stepped in front of him, eyes on Brett, but said to the man now somewhat behind him, “You know him because he’s a football player.”
“A football player?”
He clapped his hand on Shark’s shoulder, relaxing a little as the tension left his friend. He moved so he was sideways, indicating Brett again with his beer. “This here is the reason we won the Lombardi last year. Brett motherfucking Broudou. The Brood Machine himself. He’s here. At our humble abode.”
Shark’s eyes got big, and he was all smiles after that. “Whoa, boy—” He began to stick his hand out.
His friend now shouldered him out of the way, speaking straight to Brett. “It’s a damn kick in the pants to see you here. What brings you here? This is my sister’s business. We’re having a little party. Goddamn tickled pink having a bonafide celebrity among us.” He held his hand out. “I’m Rowdy.”
Brett removed his hand from behind me but nabbed my shirt and yanked me against him so my entire side was plastered to him. Then he shook the man’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Shark whooped, jumping up. “Goddamn! Goddammit. This is something else. Buck! Buck! Do you know who this is?”
My eyebrows drew low because it was a sight to see as this biker had been snarling one second, about to draw some kind of weapon on us, and within three seconds, he’d transformed to Will Ferrell’s character in Elf the day they announced Santa was at the store.
He was pointing at Buck, his hand raised as high in the air as he could get, still bouncing. “This is Brett Broudou. He’s that tackle guy. The one who smashes quarterbacks for a living.” His smile stretched from ear to ear. “It’s a fucking honor to have you here. You drink? You like beer? What do you like?” His eyes fell to me. “What does your woman like?” He rounded again, his hand cupping around his mouth. “Hey, Tina! Tina! Woman.”
We couldn’t see her, but we heard from the side of the building, the side that faced the dancing area. “WHAT? GODDAMN, SHARK. SHUT THE FUCK UP! I’m working here and this is my business, and…” A very small and petite woman came around the corner, wiping her hands on a towel. She wasn’t looking up, but snarling as she finally did, saying, “…this ain’t the clubhouse. We’re not here to serve you—” And she stopped, taking in the scene as Shark had gone back to bouncing, jerking his finger in Brett’s direction. Her eyebrows slammed down. Her snarl never left. “Fucking wha—” Her eyes went to Brett, skimmed over, went to me, and she did a double take. She gasped, her body flinching as if she’d been slapped. “Holy fucking shit balls of all hair balls. You’re Willow Harm.”
Shark stopped bouncing. “She’s what?” He pivoted on his feet, studying me again.
Rowdy said under his breath, “Goddamn, she is.” His voice was quiet.
