Getting Rowdy

“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.

Righting herself, Avery said, “Rowdy, don’t do it.”

Vibrating with the surge of anger, Rowdy kept one fist knotted in the man’s shirt, the other held down at his side.

As the man tried to jerk free, his shirt ripped.

Rowdy wanted to rip out his heart, too. It wasn’t easy, but he managed to say with controlled fury, “Don’t ever put your hands on my employees.”

Realizing he had the attention of the owner, the man shoved his face close. “I’ve been here for hours. She made me lose my temper.”

Rowdy didn’t blink; it took all his concentration to fight his natural instinct to defend what was his—and he didn’t mean the bar.

“Ever touch her again and you’ll lose a hell of a lot more. Now leave.”

Frustrated, the man shoved both hands through his dark, greasy hair. He drew in a deep breath. “I don’t have time for this shit.” Belatedly, he looked around, realized he was drawing attention and leaned in for privacy.

The foul stench of sweat and desperation almost caused Rowdy to flinch.

“I made a deal,” the man said through wet lips, “and I never got paid. The owner traded me some of the equipment to even things up and avoid retaliation.”

“I’m the owner,” Rowdy enjoyed telling him. “And I don’t trade with drug dealers.”

“Before you!”

“Before me is none of my concern.”

The man locked his large hands into boulder-size fists. “Look, buddy, my day has been shit already, okay? I have my own debts to pay, the junker truck I borrowed barely runs and to top it off, the old lady shoved the kid off on me.”

Ice ran down Rowdy’s spine... Shoved the kid off on me... His thoughts scrambled, tripping over ugly possibilities.

“So now I’m done playing nice.” The man ground his teeth together and lowered his voice to a snarl. “Either give me the equipment or give me my money.”

Rowdy swallowed hard, but sickness continued to crawl up his throat. A Mack truck parked on his chest, making a deep breath impossible. Ugly memories sharpened everything he felt. “Where are you parked?”

Thinking he’d won, the bruiser rubbed his hands together. “Out back. I’ll take the jukebox and the—”

“We’ll discuss it.” Rowdy clamped a hand on his arm and propelled him forward. “Let’s go somewhere private.”

A soft, feminine voice reached out to him. “Rowdy?”

He didn’t look at Avery. He didn’t dare. The last thing he needed was her interference. “I’ll be right back,” he told a narrow-eyed Jones and a pale Ella, “Back to work.”

Avery said nothing else, and that should have made him suspicious, but he was too busy concentrating on the man in front of him. Big, dirty, a bully used to getting his own way, scum who didn’t mind making a scene or using his strength against those who were smaller or weaker. Rowdy might’ve just met the bastard, but he knew him.

Far too well.

Rowdy wasn’t small and he wasn’t weak, not now, not ever again. Each step he took narrowed his focus until it became a single laser beam of driving purpose.

People shifted out of the way as the two of them went through the bar and out the front door. Chill evening air filled Rowdy’s lungs, helping to clear away the haze of blistering rage. A restless breeze played over his fevered muscles, reminding him to relax.

Battles were always best fought with a cool head and limber muscles.

“I’ll take the jukebox,” the bully said again, “and a few cases of whiskey. That’s a bargain for you.”

Keeping a tight leash on his emotions, Rowdy stayed two steps behind. “We’ll talk about it near your truck.” And if he found what he thought he would, then God help the man.

At the alley beside the bar, they turned to head around back. The security lights Rowdy had installed helped to light the dark alleyway, which had discouraged hookers, dopers and gangs from hanging out there.

He had a clear path to the back lot—a lot where only employees should have been parked.

Rowdy stepped out of the alley and faced a nightmare, his worst suspicions confirmed.

The f**king bully had sealed his own fate.

He’d brought along a kid.

CHAPTER SIX

SITTING ON THE ground outside the open truck door, his knees pulled up to his skinny chest, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans too short, the boy huddled against a rear tire. Rowdy guessed him to be eight, maybe nine years old. When the boy saw them, he jumped to his feet, his skinny chest working, his gaze filled with wariness.

“Who’s this?” Rowdy asked.

“He’s nobody. Don’t worry about it.”

Nobody. Rowdy forced himself to breathe calmly. “Is he your son?”

“That’s what the bitch says.” Not realizing his own peril, the guy laughed. “The runt don’t really look like me though, does he?”

A strange sort of peace settled over Rowdy. He knew what it was, because he’d felt it before. A defense mechanism. A way to push aside emotion so that only cold, lethal intent remained. It was how he’d coped back then, and how he would cope right now. “Where’s his coat?”

“How the f**k do I know?”

Chills had the boy trembling. And damn it, Rowdy shook with him. “What’s your name, kid?”

The boy put up his chin, silent, miserable. Afraid to speak.