Did he not realize how outnumbered they were?
“Let’s go,” Della said.
She no more got the words out than she knew that had been a mistake.
“You always do what your whore tells you to?” the jerk, rubbing his arm, asked Chase.
“Did you just call her a whore?” Chase clenched his fist.
Every muscle in Della’s body tightened, prepared to fight. But before she took one step, Chase had the ass**le against the wall. And not the wall beside the table where they’d sat, but the one on the other side of the bar. How? She hadn’t even seen him move. Holy crap! Just how fast was the panty perv?
He held the guy by the throat, pressing him against the faded paneling. The jerk’s feet dangled a foot off the floor. He should have been kicking, but from the color of the lowlife’s face, he wasn’t getting air, and probably knew one wrong move and his windpipe would be crushed.
“Tell her you’re sorry,” Chase demanded.
“You wreck this place, you pay for it!” the bartender, leaning against the bar, yelled out. “You wanna kill each other, do it outside. We’ll join you and take bets on who’ll make it.”
Chase, obviously ignoring the bartender, didn’t move. “I said, tell her you’re sorry!”
The jerk, his face now blood-red, couldn’t talk, but he moved his lips.
“I didn’t hear you,” Chase seethed. “Try that again.”
The man’s friend shot up from his chair. Della flew toward him, but before she got there, he’d slung a table at Chase.
Chase never looked back, but with his free hand he caught the table by one leg and held it up in midair like some kind of circus performer.
“Sit your ass back down,” Chase growled, and while he never looked at the table thrower, there was no doubt who he was talking to.
Della gazed around the room, watching for the next attack, prepared to intervene, if needed. Oddly enough, only the man’s friend who’d thrown the furniture seemed to be a threat. Everyone else just seemed entertained.
Chase set the table down. Almost gently, not breaking it. He turned his head, giving the room a quick glance. “I said sit down!”
The man’s friend remained standing, as if still debating his next move.
“I have a free hand,” Chase seethed, and waved his left arm. “Put your butt in that chair or you’ll be up against the wall with this guy and I’ll choke the life out of both of you! And if anyone else tries anything, I’ll do the same to them the second I’m finished crushing the windpipes of these lowlifes.”
The friend of Mr. Ponytail flopped back in his seat. “I never really liked his ass that much anyway.”
The bartender and the few other patrons laughed.
Chase didn’t seem to appreciate the humor. He stared back up at the red-faced, bulging-eyed vamp he held against the wall. “Now, you want to apologize? Or do I break your freaking neck?”
The guy croaked out a sound. Chase must have been happy, because he moved his hand from the guy’s neck, allowing him to fall to a heap on the floor.
The vamp coughed and rubbed his throat. Chase stood there for several long seconds, watching the guy try to draw air through his bruised throat, as if giving the creep a chance to get up and start more trouble. When he didn’t, Chase started for the door. He moved slow and with confidence. Not a bit worried anyone would attack.
He stopped beside her, and motioned for her to go first.
Unfortunately, Della didn’t follow orders. She waved him ahead.
He rolled his eyes, but then he walked out. As she moved through the door, she heard someone say, “I don’t know what kind of blood that kid was drinking, but I want some of that.”
Della stepped out into the cool October air. The night had grown darker. But the moon, almost full, cast silver light down on the woody terrain. She glanced around for threats, spotting only a couple leaning against the back of the building, their clothes half off.
Looking away, she studied Chase’s back moving in front of her. She didn’t want to be impressed. But, damn it! Color her impressed. She wanted some of whatever Chase was drinking, too.
Ten minutes later, she followed him in a fast run, or tried to follow him. He kept going faster and faster. His only comment to her when she’d stepped beside him outside the bar had been, “Keep up if you can.”
The one thing Della hated more than taking a challenge she thought she’d lose was walking away from one without trying. Her feet pounded the cold dirt. She kept her focus on Chase, who seemed to run without effort. His feet left the ground and he went into full flight. Della did the same, but the energy it took her to fly at that speed caused her gut to ache.
Midflight, Chase turned and looked at her. Checking on her. As if noting her condition, he shifted and started down, navigating between the trees to solid ground. He came to an easy stop, not even breathing hard, and looked up at her descending.
She hit the ground with a thud, but thankfully managed to stay on her feet. She tried to hide the fact that her lungs wouldn’t take air. Then, like the other night when they’d gone running, her stomach cramped. Swinging around, she lost the contents of her stomach in the brush.
When she rose up and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, he stood beside her. “At least it wasn’t on my shoes this time.”
She glared up at him. She normally didn’t puke after her runs, but then again, she didn’t push herself like this either.
“Okay, you’re faster than me,” she snapped. “Don’t rub it in.” Admitting it cost her a bit of pride.
“I’m not trying to rub it in.” For a flicker of a second she saw what looked like concern in his eyes. “Running is good for you, come on. It will help.” He turned and took off again.
She didn’t.
He got about fifty feet, stopped, and shot back to stand in front of her. “Don’t wimp out on me.”
She ignored his insult. “Help with what?”
He hesitated before answering. “The grief.”
“I’m dealing with it.” And as much as she hated admitting it, it was true. Focusing on finding Lorraine’s killer held the grief at bay.
“Not very well.” He started walking, fast. She moved beside him. They didn’t speak for a few minutes.
“You ready to go?” he asked.
“To look for the Jugglers?” she asked, setting aside her angst with him.
“No,” he said. “To run. We’re done with the case for the night.”