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Turning around, I leaned back against the bar, resting an elbow on the surface as I tipped the bottle back and drained the beer. I could use another, but I decided to wait, checking my watch a second time. Two minutes before eight.
Maddog suggested one of our old haunts for this meeting, and it left me feeling too fucking nostalgic tonight. Las Vegas held memories I’d rather forget. Hence, the reason I hadn’t returned except to visit my dad who lived in Henderson.
With a sigh, I scrubbed a hand down my face.
“Hey, here’s another. You look like you need it.”
I nodded my thanks to the bartender and brought the lip of the bottle to my mouth, chugging a few big swallows.
Choosing to push my past behind me where it belonged, I scanned the room. A group of guys had gotten rowdy around a pool table but weren’t hurting anyone. Just fuckin’ loud. A couple bickered in a corner. I caught the swish of a fine ass and long bare legs as a redhead left the bar, pushing through the doors in a rush. Nothing else held my interest.
Glancing at my watch, I noted the time. Again.
Eight fifteen p.m.
I tapped the wooden surface of the bar, drumming my fingertips with impatience. Public places tended to make me nervous, but it wasn’t the reason I stayed alert, studying the doorway and bar for any sign of Maddog. He promised to meet me here with the new SAA for the Las Vegas Royal Bastards, Manic, at eight.
It wasn’t like him to be late. When Maddog set up a place and time to meet, he usually arrived first. Numerous years in the military molded him into a man who made every choice and took every step with careful planning and confidence. Not once in all the years I’d known him had he been late to a meeting.
Something was up.
I finished my beer and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, letting my gaze glide over the room and its occupants. We chose this bar because of its proximity to Las Vegas and the open desert surrounding it. No one would catch us by surprise. It wasn’t just our enemies that posed a threat. The Royal Bastards had plenty of their own. Fuck.
That could only mean one thing. Maddog’s delay wasn’t intentional. Someone got to him before he reached the bar.
I stood, closed my tab, and headed outdoors, shoving through the entrance. On the way to my bike, I checked my phone: no calls or messages.
Well, fucking fuck.
Agitated, I threw my leg over the seat and settled into the saddle, lighting a smoke. The music from inside the bar barely penetrated the quiet night. If it had, I probably never would have heard the tiny whimper coming from the dark side of the building, hidden from the moon’s silvery white beams as night descended.
I rose off the seat, flicking my cigarette to the asphalt and stomping out the cinders with my boot. Moving fast and quiet, I approached the shaded area, where someone hid in the shadows and pressed against the exterior wall. Another pain-filled groan reached my ears before I tapped the flashlight option on my phone. Bright light lit up the wall, exposing a dirty, beaten girl wearing jean shorts and a black tank top. She had dark red hair. Blood spattered her clothes, arms, and face. Several rips in her shirt led me to believe she’d been attacked, but she wasn’t panicking.
Wait.A redhead with long legs and a fine ass.Shit. I saw her leave the bar.
“Fuck.”
She blinked at the light and turned her head. “You trying to blind me?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, lowering my hand.
She looked up, shading her eyes. “What do you want?”
“Where are you hurt?” I asked, wondering if she’d been stabbed. There was too much fucking blood. A bruise was forming on her jaw, and dried blood crusted her nose.
Jesus.
She snorted and turned her head, spitting blood-tinged saliva from her mouth. Her lip was fucking busted. “What the fuck do you think, Sherlock?”
Sherlock? Oh, Holmes.Nice.I could work with sarcasm. It was my favorite language. Some would say I was fucking fluent in it.
“I’m guessing you didn’t hit your own face.” The hand that wasn’t holding my phone curled into a fist. The motherfucker who used her as a punching bag would beg for mercy before I finished with him.
“You look pissed,” she observed.
“I am,” I confessed.
“Why? You don’t know me. Maybe I deserved this.” She tried to stand and groaned, pressing her hand against her ribs.
