Page 7 of Forgiving Utah

He snatches up the money before turning away silently.

Beside me, Owen exhales a shaky breath. “Told you we weren’t supposed to be here.”

“Chill,” I tell him, even though my muscles are tensing for a fight. “He’s probably just having a bad night.”

“Yeah, well, now I’m having one too. Can we chug our beer and go, please?”

I nod absently, my brain still stuck on that cigarette glow in the corner: those metal piercings and sharp jaw. There's no way it was him. Couldn’t be. Could it?

I glance over my shoulder again, just in case, but the corner table is empty now. Disappointment has me slumping against the bar.

It’s not like I wanted to see him, or anything. It ain't like that. Bartender just pissed me the fuck off and getting into a fight with some lying, cheating asshole sounds like a good way to blow off steam. That, or find a warm body to take home.

“Let's go play some pool,” I mutter, grabbing our pitcher without bothering to ask for glasses. Owen reluctantly follows, and we push through the crowd for an empty spot. Once we find one, I set the pitcher down before grabbing a cue off the rack. Owen just hovers behind me with his arms crossed, looking uncomfortable as shit.

“Drink, little creep,” I smirk, racking up our pool balls. “You’ll feel better.”

He eyes the pitcher like it’s poison but lifts it up for a sip anyway.

A few tables over, some of the bikers watch us closely—rough-looking guys with inked necks and beards. One of them says something to the others, sending them into a chorus of booming laughter.

I try to ignore it, instead focusing on my shot, but then one of them calls out a homophobic slur over the music. My back stiffens.

“Christian,” Owen looks up in a panic. “Please don’t⁠—”

“I’m not doing anything.” Taking my shot, I sink a stripe, all of my focus honed in on the men sneering at us. Blood roars in my ears.

Another slur makes Owen flinch, followed by obnoxious laughter.

“Be right back,” I say, calmly setting down my pool cue.

“Christian—”

Before he can grab me, I spin around and walk toward the group. A guy in the middle looks me over as I approach like he’s sizing up roadkill.

“Something funny?” I ask, planting my palms on the table.

His lip curls. “Yeah. You.”

“Well, tell me the joke. I wanna laugh too.”

“Didn’t know they let pretty boys in here,” he spits, glaring at Owen over my shoulder.

It's my turn to sneer back. “Guess they got tired of looking at your ugly ass, pendejo.”

Everyone laughs but the ogre in front of me. He shoves to his feet, towering above. “You got a mouth on you, huh?”

Smiling brightly, I blow the fucker a kiss. “That's what your mom said last night when I spread her wide for me.”

Owen’s voice cuts in faintly from behind. “Oh my god, why.”

The guy grins humorlessly, his fist rearing back for a punch.

Yes. Finally.

Before the hit can land, though, a series of shouts ring out near the back of the bar.

Everyone's attention turns toward the noise, where two massive bikers are crowding someone by the bathroom. One grips his collar while the other pummels his face.