Give Me More (Salacious Players Club #3) (26)

When his hands wrap around her waist, hauling her to his side against her will, I see red. There’s no bar, no club, no rules or decorum. There is only his hands on her and the look of helplessness and disgust on her face as she tries to pry herself out of his grasp.

I don’t remember standing up or marching toward him. All I know is one second I hear her scream and the next moment, he’s on the floor and my fist is throbbing.

“Drake!” she yelps, and I don’t know if she’s mad or scared, but suddenly, chaos ensues.

Security guards are hauling me toward the door, but I can’t see Isabel anymore, and it has me panicking. So I fight against their hold to get to her, which only makes them more aggressive. I’m not a small man by any means, and these three bouncers aren’t big enough to handle me in desperation mode. What starts as a couple arms around mine, as they try to drag me to the exit, quickly turns into a chokehold with my face pressed against the floor and a knee in my back.

“Get your fucking hands off of him,” a deep, familiar voice growls, and I lift my head just enough to see Hunter snarling in the face of one of the security guards.

“Tell him to calm the fuck down and we will,” the man argues.

“He was clearly defending me!” Isabel shrieks. I hate the terror in her voice. This is all my fault.

“Lady, back the fuck up,” one of the guards snaps at her, and there’s a scuffle again. This time, I have enough room to fight my way off the floor, and I jump up in time to see Hunter fighting with one of the men in all black.

God, when was the last time the two of us have been in a brawl—a long, fucking time, that’s how long. And definitely before Isabel.

I know how desperate I am to get her out of here. I can guarantee Hunter is even more so. So as much as I'd like to help him put these handsy guards in their place, my first objective is to get her the hell out of here.

I grab Isabel by the hand and latch a fist on Hunter’s collar as I drag both of them toward the bright red exit sign.

Hunter is still yelling threats at the bouncers as we make our way out into the warm night air, where it’s instantly quiet and muggy, the only sound being our own heavy breathing.

“Fuck that place!” Hunter barks.

“Are you okay?” I ask Isabel.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking,” Hunter notices as he pulls her into his arms. I stifle the rising feeling of jealousy at the sight.

“Let’s just go, please,” she replies.

The hotel is only a few blocks away, and we walked here, so we head out on foot toward the hotel. We’re all still fuming about the altercation at the club.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have drunk that much,” I say, breaking the silence first.

“It’s not your fault,” Isabel replies, placing a hand on my arm.

“They need a two-drink limit,” Hunter grumbles. “And to vet their members better. That shit would never happen at Salacious.”

“Never,” I reply.

The click-click of Isabel’s heels draw my attention to her feet. She’s wearing black stilettos and they do not look comfortable for a three-block walk. Grabbing her arm, I stop her.

“You can’t walk all this way in those.”

She glances down at her feet. “I’m fine. They’re comfortable.”

I tilt my head to the side and glare at her.

“What?” she argues. “Are you going to give me your shoes?”

“Come on, I’ll carry you.” Turning around, I kneel, so she can reach my back, and I wait for her to climb on.

“Drake, you can’t carry me all the way back.”

“Remember when you twisted your ankle on our ski trip and I had to carry you all the way down the mountain? That was nothing, and this time, you don’t have ten pounds of ski gear on. Just quit arguing with me and climb on.”

She lets out a long sigh. Then she slips each shoe off, hands them to Hunter, and quickly climbs onto my back. My hands grasp onto her thighs that are squeezing around my waist as we start our walk again. I can’t help but notice Hunter is wearing a crooked smirk on his face.

“This is hardly the dress to wear for piggyback rides,” she says, her voice just next to my ear.

“Your underwear isn’t showing,” Hunter replies from behind us.

“Barely,” she adds, and we all chuckle as we walk.

Up ahead, there are colorful lights shining on the side of the road, next to what looks like another bar. As we get closer, we see people crowded around a food truck and the aroma of grilled meat fills the air.

“Ooh, tacos,” Isabel says with a hum. “I’m starving.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, heading toward the food truck.

“Damn, those smell good,” Hunter adds.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of us are sitting on a curb in the heart of the city, scarfing down street tacos and drinking beer. Hunter has shed his jacket, letting Isabel sit on it, and I have my hair pulled into a bun to keep it out of my carne asada.

This is us. More than fancy suits and exclusive clubs. It’s moments like this one that feels most like us, where we came from. Hunter and I were never cut out for the fancy shit. We spent the first half of our lives clawing our way out of the slums and even now, doing as well as we are, I need gentle reminders like this that we’re still us.