Standing in the Shadows (McClouds & Friends #2)(100)

Crazy Eamon's legacy was a formidable one. Miles had no idea.

But the tenderhearted Sean just clapped Miles gently on the back. "Sure, man. Just be prepared to work your ass off for hours every day until every muscle screams for mercy and every inch of you drips with sweat. You'll get the hang of it."

Miles looked daunted, but he wiped blood from his mouth with his sleeve, nodding. "I don't want to ever get slammed like that again."

"No guarantees, buddy," Sean warned. "I've gotten slammed plenty of times. There's always some trick you don't know."

"Or they come at you six at a time," Davy said. "That's always a bitch. But training helps."

"Speaking of getting slammed," Connor said. "I saw you leave your balls wide open twice, Sean. Pull up your guard. It's not about looking good, it's about walking away in one piece. Show-off."

"None of those clowns could've gotten inside my guard if I'd given them a written invitation," Sean snapped. "And you're a fine one to talk about stupid risks with your track record, bozo. If you see me do it in a real fight, then you can give me hell. Until then, shut up."

Erin barreled into him and grabbed him. "Are you all right?"

The anxiety in her voice made him smile. "Miles got pounded pretty bad, but he's on his feet," he told her. "Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about? Nine against three? Is that what you call nothing to worry about? God, Connor! It happened so fast!"

He tried to put his arms around her, but she jerked away. "You didn't tell me that was going to happen!" she shouted.

"You didn't say one word about fighting with him! You said 'talk,' remember? Don't you ever, ever do that to me again, Connor McCloud! Do you hear me?"

"He started it," Connor protested. "And I didn't—"

"Don't even try!" she yelled. "Just shut up!"

He tried kissing her, but she was having none of it. "Look, babe," he soothed. "Why don't you go on back to the car and look after your mom and Cindy while we have a talk with Billy?"

"Let the little lady go and be good behind the scenes while the big manly men do their big manly thing, hmm?"

Erin's eyes were afire with anger. God, she was so red-hot when she was mad. It was making him hard just looking at her.

"Hey," Davy called. "You can spare yourself this argument, Con. Miles clobbered him." Davy crouched over Billy, touched his throat with his fingertip, peeked under his eyelids. "He's out of it for a while."

The rat-faced blonde ran over to Billy and flung herself across his limp form. "You killed Billy!" she shrilled. "Fuckin' murderers!"

Connor rubbed his aching leg, and visualized a cigarette with a sharp pang of longing. "Nobody's killed anybody, nor will they," he said wearily. "I guess we just have to wait for him to come around."

"The police will be here any minute," Erin said.

"Police?" Connor gaped, appalled. "What do you mean, police?"

Erin held up his cell phone. "Of course, the police!" she said tartly. "What do you expect? Nine guys attack you all at once, and what am I supposed to do? Twiddle my thumbs? Wave pom poms?"

"You were supposed to let me deal with it!" he snarled. "I don't want to talk to the police! The police cannot help me right now!"

"That's just tough!" she shot back. "You scared me to death! Now deal with the consequences!"

He glanced at Sean and Davy. "Let's get the f*ck out of here. We can hunt down Billy some other time."

Sean turned to address the crowd of gawkers gathering around them. "Public service announcement, everybody! The cops will be here any minute, so start thinking about your witness statements now!"

The crowd melted away like magic.

The back door of the Cadillac was open, and Barbara Riggs was half in, half out, eyes frozen wide. He handed her his cane. "Would you throw that into the back window for me, Mrs. Riggs?" he asked. "Let's get going. I'm sure you want to get Cindy home."

He got into the car, and waited for the back door to swing shut It did not. He followed Erin's startled gaze, and jerked his head around.

Barbara Riggs was marching across the parking lot, clutching his cane like a club. The evening, which could never have been called normal to begin with, was about to take a turn for the seriously weird.

"Which car is Billy's?" Barbara demanded.

Miles daubed at the fresh flow of blood from his nose with his gory sleeve and pointed across the lot, to where a low-slung silver Jaguar glowed softly in the dark, like a phosphorescent sea creature.

Connor ran to stop her, but it was too late. She lifted his cane high over her head and whipped it down over the Jag's windshield with admirable force. The glass crunched and sagged. Fault lines shivered through the entire gleaming surface. Crash, a blow to the other side of the windshield. Smash, out went the right headlight; crash, tinkle, there went the left. Driver's side window, smash. She whipped the cane down and managed to make a pretty decent dent in the roof. The white purse dangled and swung over her arm with each movement.

There was an awful, ponderous inevitability to it, like watching a wrecking ball taking down a brick building. She was drawing another crowd, too. It wasn't every day that you saw a middle-aged lady in a pale pink pantsuit bashing a hundred-thousand-dollar car to garbage.