Tied (Tangled, #4)(46)

Good boy. I feel that I should throw him a treat or pat his head.

And then . . .

“What the f**k did you just say?”

That little tidbit was growled by a beefy, blond-haired guy who just walked out from the side of the bar, with four other equally large men behind him. What they lack in height, they make up for in solid girth—the type my mother would have called “big boned.” They’re probably early to mid-twenties; one has a University of Nevada hat on, another wears a sweatshirt with Greek lettering.

Frat boys.

Although I was one of them once, I never realized how f**king obnoxious and annoying this particular breed can be, until after I graduated. They epitomize the phrase young, dumb, and full of cum. Because they travel in groups, they have that mob mentality—emboldened, loud, and constantly trying to impress each other how far up the di**ck-o-meter their actions are.

And Billy Warren is in their crosshairs. Not good.

Warren begins to respond, “I said—”

I jog over, with Jack, Matthew, and Steven hot on my heels, to make sure Warren doesn’t get killed. Kate would not be pleased.

Blond Ape #1 shoves Warren’s chest. The really strange thing is, it genuinely pisses me off. “You talkin’ to my girlfriend, loser?” He grabs the girl by the arm. “I told you to wait, bitch—I didn’t say you could talk.”

I step in front of Billy. “Hey, fellas—I think there’s been a little misunderstanding.”

“I don’t think this is any of your business.”

I confess, “You have no idea how much I wish that were true. Unfortunately, it’s not. My friend thought the girl needed help. He was looking out for her—that’s all. No harm, no foul.”

“Your boyfriend made a major f**king foul, hitting on my girl. I’m gonna take it out on his ass.” Then he spits at my feet.

Classy.

I no longer feel like resolving this diplomatically. “Well, if you’re gonna be an * about it—”

The girl tries to intervene. She puts a hand on the guy’s chest while the other rubs his arm, trying to soothe the savage beast. “He didn’t do anything. Just let it go, Blair.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Blair? Your name is Blair? Christ, no wonder you’re so angry. You have my sincerest sympathy.” Keeping my eyes on the group of numb-nuts, I motion to Matthew. “You see what happens when parents are careless with the naming? This is your future, man.”

In case you can’t tell—no, I’m not intimidated by the loudmouth frat boy. Because he, like most bullies, is a *. Real tough guys? Truly dangerous men? They’re on the quiet side. They don’t need to put on a show or announce all the pain they’re going to inflict on you. They just do it, before you ever have the chance to be afraid. Or see it coming.




Blair steps toward me, but Warren pops in between us—hands raised in submission.

“Hold up. Just wait—this is between you and me, f**ker. Keep my friends out of it.”

I look at Warren as if he’s lost his mind. ’Cause I’m fairly certain that’s the case. “Are you nuts?”

He looks back over his shoulder at me. “Katie would never forgive me if you missed the wedding because you were in the hospital. And I grew up with Dee-Dee—if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s take a beating.”

Right then and there, my opinion of Warren is forever altered. He’s still an idiot—as he just demonstrated. And because of his history with Kate, I’ll never like him. But throwing himself on his sword like this? Trying to protect me and the guys? It takes balls—brass ones. He just earned my respect.

Matthew, Steven, and Jack are lined up behind me, tense and ready. I take a breath and ask, “Matthew—you cool with this plan?”

He answers, “Absolutely.”

“How about you, Jack, you up for it?”

He chuckles darkly. “I’m always up for it, man.”

“Steven?”

“Why the hell not? Screw it.”

Those are the only answers I need. I step around Warren, closer to Blair. “Okay—you can kick the shit out of him, and the rest of us will just sit by and watch.”

Confused shock registers on his face. “Seriously?”

I smile. “No, moron—I’m lying to you.” By the time my words register in his addled brain, my fist is already flying. Right at the f**ker’s nose, busting it wide-open.

Then all hell breaks loose.



Typically, I believe a sucker punch is a pansy move. Cowardly. But this is a street fight. A cage match. There are no rules. Fingers in the eye sockets, kicks to the nads—it’s all fair game. A bloodied Blair tackles me to the ground, while the melee rages around us.

I take a blow to the shoulder and the ribs, trying to protect my face. Warren had a valid point about the wedding thing. If my face is stitched up like Frankenstein’s, it’ll ruin the pictures.

I land a left hook to the di**ckhead’s jaw, close enough to the injured nose to make him howl. It goes on like this for about five minutes, though it feels much longer.

Then the girl that started it all says the magic words: “Cops! Cops!”

Every one of us responds like a high schooler at a beer bash.