Motorcycle Man (Dream Man #4)(94)

“Honey, please, get… in… the car.”

She held my eyes and I held hers right back.

“I didn’t want a big deal made of this,” she whispered.

“Too late and, incidentally, it wasn’t you making this a big deal.”

“No,” she was still whispering, looking like she’d been betrayed by her best friend, “it was you.”

Shot straight to the heart.

“Tab, honey, it was him,” I informed her.

“It was you,” she whispered then dropped her head, looked at her feet and walked to the car.

Okay, well, that didn’t go great.

Whatever.

I’d deal with Tabby later. Time to get this done.

I looked at the boys which now included Tug.

“We knock on the door, you take my back, I’m lead,” I gave them the plan.

“You are f**kin’ not,” Shy replied, immediately screwing with my plan.

“I am,” I returned.

“You aren’t, Tyra,” Roscoe put in. “Take Tabby home. Get her cleaned up.”

“I am,” I repeated to Roscoe this time.

“That’s whacked,” Tug interjected.

“It isn’t,” I snapped, my eyes going to him. “You boys need to keep your noses clean. Two of you are about to get your cuts and a stay in lockup for assault and battery might delay that.”

“Babe, that doesn’t make your plan any less whacked. The motherf*cker hit a sixteen year old,” Shy reminded me. “He’s not gonna hit you. You’re Tack’s woman. We stood back and allowed that, he’d lose his f**kin’ mind.”

I wasn’t so sure about that at that present juncture but I didn’t share.

Shy wasn’t done.

“Not to mention, you’re just a woman. This is man’s work.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong thing to say.

I therefore leaned into him but jerked my arm straight back behind me, pointing to my car. “Yes,” I hissed, “and that’s my girl. So, lesson, boys, he hit my girl and he took advantage of her when she was too young to get it. So this is woman’s work and I’m f**king lead. This goes south, you step in. But it won’t go south, trust me.”

“You got a black belt or somethin’?” Tug asked curiously.

“No,” I answered then yanked the pepper spray out of my pocket and showed it to him, “I’ve got a surprise.”

Tug grinned. Roscoe’s eyebrows shot up but he still looked unimpressed. Shy looked to the ceiling created by the upper walkway.

I decided we’d delayed enough and pushed through them in order to stomp to apartment number five. I felt them close in behind me as I lifted my hand and knocked, loud.

“Fuck off!” came a shout from inside.

Rude.

Not a surprise but also f**king with my plan.

“Open this door!” I shouted back.

“Go f**k yourself,” was returned.

“Open this door!” I repeated. “I’m not going to ask again.”

“Kiss my ass!”

“Right, then!” I yelled then stepped back and swung my arm toward the door while ordering, “Bust it in.”

“Babe, a charge of breaking and entering will also get us a stay in lockup,” Shy rationally pointed out.

I’d had a bad evening, a worse night and not much sleep. Tabby was pissed at me, bleeding and she’d just found out her boyfriend was a jerk. It was the wee hours of morning.

I was in no mood for rational.

I was in the mood to kick some ass.

So I shrieked, “Bust it in!”

“Jesus, f**kin’ hell, all right, all right,” Roscoe muttered, positioned, lifted a motorcycle-boot clad foot and slammed it into the door.

It popped right open.

I shoved through the boys again and stormed right in.

I saw my mistake immediately when I saw the baseball bat swinging in the direction of my head. Luckily, I was presently Arctic Tyra and I had a mission I was not going to allow to be foiled so I had the presence of mind to duck. The bat whiffed over me, I heard Shy’s growled, angry, “Fuck,” but ignored it and I came up, armed with pepper spray.

I aimed, I shot.

My luck in life was up for debate.

My luck in that moment wasn’t because the spray worked.

He howled, dropped the bat, his hands went to his face and he tripped over his feet in retreat.

“What the f**k! What the f**k! What the f**k is that?” he shouted.

I noted vaguely he was kind of cute so I understood his allure to Tabby. I also vaguely noted his Momma needed to make a visit to do some cleaning. At the same time I stayed on target, dropped my spray and advanced.

I got my opportunity and hit him, palm open, slapping him hard right across the face.

He was in such a state, he couldn’t correct himself and fell to his hands and knees.

I bent over him and asked sweetly, “Feel good?”

“Fuck!” he shouted then started crawling and ran into a coffee table.

I grabbed his shirt, yanked him back and twisted him. When I got my shot, I slapped him again with such force, his head snapped around.

“How about that?” I asked. “Feel good?”

He swung blindly out with his arms so it was easy to avoid them.