Page 3 of Bad Attitude
Which is well-timed, because the Kawasaki guy in the leather jacket and jeans is coming up behind me, and he lookspissed.
“You?” he demands. “Some fuckingchick?”
He’s a lot more observant with my braid down my back and my jacket off, leaving me in just a strappy top.
The armored shoulder of his leathers bangs into me as he leans on the bar. “Get me a Coors.”
I was just about to take a sip, and barely manage to absorb the hit, avoiding spilling my beer. “Watch it, asshole.”
He looks back at me over one shoulder. “What did you call me?”
This fight was inevitable since he walked in shouting his head off. I don’t see a reason to back down now.
“I called you a shit rider with an ego three times the size of your IQ, and a bike you don’t know what to do with. I’ve seen better lines from a drunk on a scooter.”
His face cycles through red to purple as his brain figures out the insult. Then he leans in much closer than I’d ever want, giving me a whiff of his sour breath. “You fuckingchica. You ride a bike that’s too big for you, pull moves you ain’t got no place pulling.” He sneers. “You talk to me withrespect, or you come out and find your Ducati on its side.”
I go still. “You touch it, I’ll rip your balls off.” I mean it, too.
Fireblade doesn’t say anything; he’s just watching. But his eyes are on me, not his Kawasaki buddy.
“Bro…” comes a voice from behind me. The mirror tells me the other two guys are there. The speaker has his arms folded. “Not cool. You don’t threaten the bike.”
Damn right.
Kawasaki twists his mouth like it’s my fault. “That’s fine,” he growls. “I’ll teach her respect another way.” He jerks his chin at me. “How about we go out back and you say sorry by wrapping your pretty pink lips around my cock?”
That figures. All men are either misogynistic bastards or momma’s boys. This one is probably both.
“Best offer I’ve had all morning,” I drawl. “Here’s a better one. How about you go out front and fuck your exhaust while it’s still warm?”
He grabs for my throat, but I was anticipating it. He’s not only predictable, but slower than I expect, and it gives me plenty of time to ram the neck of my bottle under his jaw. His mouth slams shut with a satisfying click of his teeth, his head jerking back inreflex. Now his groping hand is easy to brush away.
I flip the bottle, catch it again, beer spraying as I rise up on the footrest of my stool, and smash it over his head.
Kawasaki goes down hard, dropping to a knee, but he’s not out.
“Jesus, Raven—” Joe steps back, hands raised, shaking his head at the broken brown glass everywhere. Like this was an inevitability in his mind.
“Fuck,” breathes one of the guys behind me.
I spin on them, the broken bottle in my grip like a knife. They both back up, not wanting jagged glass in their faces. Fireblade is now behind me, and I turn on him next, not trusting anyone at my back. But he hasn’t moved. He puts his Modelo to his lips and flicks the bottle up, watching me with those disconcerting pale blue eyes.
Kawasaki pushes my stool over and it crashes to the floor. He staggers as he gets his feet under him, face ugly with rage.
He’s maybe 5’10, four inches on me, but he’s stocky. Two-ten, I estimate. Eighty-plus over me. And this is the problem with being a woman: if he grabs my throat, my braid—hell, even my arm—I’m in trouble.
I’ve learned that the hard way. It’s why I fight like I do: dirty and brutal.
Finish it, before it truly begins.
I reach for the pool cue propped against the bar, then whip around a full circle. The middle of itsmacks into the side of his face like a birch rod, snapping cleanly. The thin end whistles off God-knows-where, leaving me holding the heavier butt. I flip it while Kawasaki is reeling from the blow, his cheek already carrying a red welt and probably broken, and now I’m holding the thin bit. I wait for his head to come back around, then backhand the thick end into his temple.
This time he goes down harder, catching the edge of the bar as he does. But he’s as stubborn as he is stupid, and still not unconscious. I step forward, grab his greasy hair, and introduce his face to my knee. There’s a satisfying crunch, and when I release him, I know he’s not getting up.
The two guys behind me back up another pace, watching me warily. The fellas at the side table are staring in shock.
I toss the end of the broken cue back onto the bartop and wipe my other hand on my pants. “Your friend owes Joe for a replacement,” I tell them, tugging my jacket off its stool, and collecting my lid, checking my gloves are still inside. Then I don’t hang around.
