Page 21 of Drilled

Well, someone was certainly feeling like changing up the script.

“Careful,” I warned him, finding my voice again. He looked at me with a questioning expression. “This might come off as a romantic gesture and ruin your street cred. Might need to catch another blue eye to remedy that.”

He blinked once at me, registering what I just said before cracking up laughing. Now it was my turn to stare. For the first time since we’d met, Dax looked genuinely carefree, his head tilted back as he laughed and the sound of it—deep, smooth and genuine—wrapped me in warmth that surpassed the jacket.

Just when I thought I couldn’t be more surprised.

“Don’t worry. I have plenty more where that came from, so I think my rep will be fine,” he said, nudging me softly with his elbow.

I snorted. “I’m sure you do, Miller. I’m sure you do.”

The air around us changed. It was as though Dax’s laugh had managed to break down whatever remaining awkwardness was wedged between us until there was nothing but an unexpected contentment. An understanding.

Just as I wondered if he was going to share any more of his own story with me, that newly cultivated peace was suddenly broken.

“Yo, Miller!”

Both Dax and I turned around sharply to see two men stalking toward us. They looked menacingly rough, wearing cheap, tactical clothing and jagged, uneven stubble. As they came even closer I noticed that one of them had split knuckles, and a fading throat tattoo disappearing down the front of his dirty collar. He was the muscle, I assumed. My theory was proven correct when the other guy was the first to speak, his cold and unblinking eyes shifting as he watched us.

I felt Dax’s body tense beside mine, shifting closer and then slightly in front of me. All previous warmth was gone, replaced by an icy focus that chilled me to the bone. I was used to seeing the asshole version of Dax smirking and scowling depending on the context.

But this? I’d never seen this look on his face before.

“Didn’t think we’d find you here, Miller,” the man repeated his name, seemingly intentionally before spitting onto the ground.

“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else,” Dax said, voice low and steady and lethal.

The first guy laughed, an ugly sound. “Oh no, I think we’ve definitely got the right guy. Your record’s not exactly forgettable. We didn’t know you were on this side of the city. Big change, no?”

“I think you should leave,” Dax said.

The spitter waved him off, as though they were just old friends having fun. But I didn’t like the undercurrent of what was happening. I may not have been part of whatever the fuck was going on right now, but I’d been around enough less than savory people to know what budding danger looked like.

And as the man continued to rattle off, not paying attention to his suggestion, I could tell Dax was quickly losing patience. His fist curled at his side. I brushed only the tip of my little finger against his, a small imperceptible movement that I hoped would be enough to ground him and bring him back.

And it seemed to work. Dax’s fist unclenched, and he released a small exhale. But he still refused to take his eyes off the two strangers. “Look, both of you, get out of here. We don’t have business with each other.”

The first dude looked almost offended at that, but instead of saying anything else to Dax, his attention was suddenly redirected to me. My body recoiled as his beady eyes made their conspicuous descent from my face down my body. His dry, flaky mouth tugged up in a grin.

“Say, who’s this, Miller? Didn’t know you had a thing for redheads,” he said, taking a step towards us. Throughout the entire conversation, they’d been inching closer until there was nothing but the bike separating us from them.

His buddy let out a low wolf whistle, craning his head to the side as he stared at me. “Not bad at all. Even though it’s difficult to see exactly what we’re working with under all those clothes.”

When Dax shifted his weight, I quickly grabbed his hand. “You guys really don’t know when to fuck off, do you?” I said, refusing to be intimidated or to let this escalate into something ugly. “Just leave.”

“Oh, it seems like she’s got a mouth on her, this one,” said Throat Tattoo. “I’d like to see what else that mouth is good for.”

Before I even processed what was happening, he’d reached out a long arm and tried to grab my ass. It was an awkward angle and a stupid overall idea, logistics aside, because before he’d even made it halfway, Dax stepped in between me and the men.

He shoved Throat Tattoo back with a powerful forearm to the chest. The thug stumbled, looking stunned like he didn’t expect that to happen. I could barely see the two men from around the wall of Dax’s body.

“Get the fuck out of here.” His voice was low, barely more than a growl. “And trust me, that’s the better option. Try and touch her again and I'll make sure not even your boss will be able to identify what’s left behind.”

The main guy glared at Dax, then at me but slowly started backing away, finally having gotten the picture. His friend, whose ego had evidently taken a bit of a knock, looked less inclined to go.

But they did, tails between their legs and still foaming at the mouth.

The spitter clapped a hand to his throat, then pretended to wring it. “I’d keep my neck loose if I was you, Miller. Keep looking over your shoulder.”