Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(23)

“Sparky.” Brock spoke to me and I glanced up at him.

I still didn’t know why he called me that. I hadn’t gotten around to asking. Last time we spoke I was concentrating on not scratching his eyes out or jumping on his lap. I couldn’t remember which.

“Brock,” I returned politely, sipping my drink.

“A word,” he commanded evenly.

I looked back up at him, hopefully with a disinterested expression. If he tried to drag me off I was totally dragging Marathon Guy along for the ride.

“Sorry, I’m sharing drinks with my new friends and it would be awfully rude of me to just leave,” I countered, glancing around at the table. The men looked slightly uncomfortable. Who wouldn’t be with Cade and Brock directing badass death stares in their direction?

“Fine,” he declared tightly, “I’ll join you.”

To my horror he sat down in the seat Gwen had just vacated, next to Trent or Troy or whatever his name was.

He flagged down our waitress. “I’ll have a Bud, darlin’. Thanks.”

Brock leaned back in the booth, casually slinging his arm along the seat. He grinned at me. I scolded myself for being momentarily stunned by how hot he was. Hotter than I remembered, if possible. His hair was in a bun again and with his cut, tattoos, and bulging muscles he put these suits to shame.

“What are you doing?” I hissed at him quietly, even though the men at the table were practically silent, watching us awkwardly.

Brock’s grin widened. “I’m sharing a drink with my new friends here.” He gestured to the table. “By the look of those suits I’m guessing you boys aren’t from around here.”

Marathon Man cleared his throat. “No, we’re just passing through on business,” he said, eyes warily inspecting Brock and his cut.

“On business? So what is it you do? Lawyers?” he guessed, eyeing their suits. He didn’t give them a chance to answer. “If you are lawyers I might be interested in hiring you. Providing you’re defense attorneys. You see—” He retrieved a long knife from his jeans and the suit clad runner’s eyes widened. Thankfully he didn’t start disemboweling anyone; he just started using it to clean his nails. Which was gross, but I knew for a fact his hands were clean as I had inspected them upon his arrival.

“I’ve found myself in some hot water in regards to the law. I’m sure I’ll be found innocent. Especially once they see the reason I broke that smarmy bastard’s jaw. And ribs,” he added with a smile and his possessive gaze moved to me. “After all, you gentlemen have had the pleasure of my lady’s company—you can see just how special she is. And why a man such as myself would be inclined to teach any man a lesson if he thought he could try and touch what’s mine.” He raised an eyebrow at the runner who seemed to have scooted as far as humanly possible away from me.

“Brock,” I hissed again, glaring at him.

He ignored me. “So any of you men willing to give me some representation?” he asked mildly.

“Actually,” the runner from beside me stuttered, glancing at his Rolex, “we’ve just realized we’ve got to get on the road.”

Brock nodded. “I think that might be a good idea.” He stood up to let the guy beside him out of the booth. “You have a nice night now.” He tipped an imaginary hat as the men scrambled out and walked away without a backward glance.

I didn’t protest throughout this because I was still processing the fact it actually happened; plus I was secretly glad I had an excuse to escape the clutches and wheatgrass laden breath of whatshisname. I wasn’t going to tell Brock that, though.

“What the f*ck was that?” I snarled, leaning across the table.

Brock took a pull of his beer, leaning back against the booth, his huge knife safely stowed back in his belt. He shrugged. “Seems your choice of company scare easily.”

“Does you waving that big knife around compensate for other areas you’re lacking in size?” I asked him spitefully, surprised I wasn’t breathing fire.

Brock’s face turned abruptly serious and sexy. “You’ll be learning I’m more than well-endowed in that area, Sparky.”

I toyed with the olives in my martini. “Why? You in any porn I watch? Because the only place I’ll be seeing any more of you is a TV screen,” I informed him, ignoring the wetness pooling between my legs at his statement.

Brock eyed me for a second. “You want it. I know you do. I know by the way you’re biting you lip, by the way you’re flushing delightfully red. And I know your panties are dripping right now,” he murmured softly, his gravelly voice full of sex.

“Are you seriously saying that to me after you waltz in here and scare away my dates for the night?” I shot back, my voice breathy.

Brock gave me a look. “Babe, I did you a favor. Those guys were pussies who scampered off the moment it looked like their suits would get crinkled. They were nowhere near good enough for you. You want a man who would fight tooth and f*ckin’ nail at just the prospect of getting into those panties of yours. One who would tear any motherf*cker down who got in the way of the chance of tasting your cunt when you come.”

I swallowed.

Ignore the way his words make you squirm in your seat, Amy.

“What gives you the right to think you can decide who is worthy enough to get in my pants?” I sneered, superbly impressed I hadn’t launched myself across the table at him.