The sounds of multiple motorcycles draw Mercenary’s attention the next morning. He hops from the bed, nearly tripping in my sheet on his way to the window. We were supposed to go back to the club but wasted the day away talking about anything and everything. Then the night was spent filled with passion, wrapped in each other’s bodies between the sheets on my bed.
“Shit, are you okay? What’s going on?”
“I’m fine,” he waves me off and mutters dismissively but not rude as he stares out the window to the parking lot below. “Fuck!” He curses as his eyes go wide at the scene. He flips around, scanning over every surface, not saying a word.
“What is it? You’re freaking me out over here!”
“The fucking Iron Fists.”
“So, shoot them!” I point to the tranq gun, my voice a higher note than normal.
“There’s too many. Fuck!” Both hands rake through his spiked, inky hair in frustration. His stomach muscles clench as he paces, the movements offering up a delicious view of every toned inch. He’s all strength and corded steel, strung tight at the impending fight the Fists will no doubt bring to The Pit.
“Can you shoot any of them or something?”
He tosses me his phone. “First number listed,” he orders. “Dial it and tell them we need backup—quick—and to bring a fuck ton of it.”
Fumbling with the phone, I do exactly as he says, watching as he points the tranquilizer gun and curses with each shot.
“O,” a gruff voice answers the phone.
“Uh, Odin?”
“Yep, who’s this?”
“It’s Chevelle.”
“Chevelle? You okay, chick?”
“Yes, there’s no time to explain, but Mercenary says to bring a lot of backup to The Pit.”
Merc hisses, a curse drawing my attention. He’s fumbling with the gun. “What is it?” I ask, forgetting about Odin momentarily.
He flicks his gaze to me, not stopping his fingers from jiggling the metal. “I hit three, missed two and then this jammed.” He briefly holds the gun up before turning his concentration back to it.
Odin yells through the phone, and I scramble to get it back to my ear. “What the fuck did he say? He shot three?”
“Yes, with the tranquilizer gun,” I reply, not taking my gaze from Mercenary.
He grumbles. “Fucking shit, how many are there?”
I call to Mercenary, “How many are there?”
“I didn’t stop and count the fuckers, tell him at least a dozen.”
“Holy shit,” Odin murmurs, yelling to people in the background. “Tell my brother to take you somewhere safe and wait us out. There’s too many for you two to fight off. Your lives are too important to waste trying to stop the Fists. They’re dangerous. If I thought you two could take them all without getting hurt, I’d say differently.”
“Okay,” I whisper, and he hangs up.
Mercenary pulls his Glock off the side table and checks to make sure it’s fully loaded. I highly doubt his weapons aren’t ever unloaded or not cleaned. He’s too meticulous for any of that.
“He said for us to hide until they get here, cupcake.”
He nods, yanking up his pants and tucking his feet into his boots. “Get dressed Chevy, quickly.”
A loud boom shakes us, drawing my breath. I fall over my feet, hurrying out of bed toward my dresser and yank on the first thing I find. “What the hell was that?”
I want to scream but refrain. I’m not a screamer but whatever they blew up downstairs has me jittery. Mercenary’s mood change has me a bit fidgety as well. I’m not used to him on edge except for when it comes to arguing with me. Even then, he’s not as solemn as now.