I swear, BobbiJo nearly melts into a puddle on the black-and-white-checkered floor. It’s likely due to his gravelly tone painting a mental picture of doing naughty things with said whipped cream.
“You got it.” She manages to shake off the haze of lust he’s induced to hustle off to put in our orders.
Our food comes out relatively fast, thankfully, and minutes later, I set down my fork and pat my belly. “My stomach thanks you.”
He surveys the interior of the restaurant, but this feels less routine and methodical. “Mine thanks you for suggestin’ this place.” What appears to be affection crosses his features before it vanishes in a blink. “Reminds me of a diner back home.”
He drains his coffee cup, not offering more. Ever the mysterious gang member, I suppose.
I slide to the end of my booth seat. “Ready to roll, Danny?”
“It’s Daniel.” But when he says it this time, his tone is far less biting. “And yeah.”
We both rise, and he tosses down a hefty tip on the table before we walk up to the cashier station. This is the moment the morning takes a swan dive into the shallow end.
Porter Davis and Clay Holt. These two are like the modern-day Beavis and Butthead duo, except far, far worse.
They’re the two scrawny kids who grew up into scrawny but taller pathetic excuses for adults. They work at the paper mill where Porter’s dad has been a supervisor for ages. Word has it that Porter and Clay should’ve been fired a dozen times over, but Mr. Davis swoops in and saves their asses, because “they’re good-hearted boys.”
Enabling. That’s all that shit is. Well, that, and delusions of grandeur are obviously hard at work there, too. Because in no universe would Porter and Clay be considered “good-hearted boys.”
Shitheads? Yes. Assholes. Absolutely. Fuckwits? Yep. A walking, sputtering clown show? Fuck, yes.
Evidently, the universe hates my fucking guts because that’s exactly who walks in as Daniel and I stand in line to pay the cashier.
The moment Porter’s shoes cross the threshold of the restaurant and he sees me, he comes to a comically abrupt stop. So much that Clay crashes into his back and the two stumble, righting themselves before they take out the metal pole displaying the Please wait to be seated sign.
“Well.” Porter tries to look down his nose at me, but since I’m a few inches taller than him, he ends up looking like Lord Farquaad in Shrek. Snooty and full of himself. “If it ain’t our hot little scar-face.”
Beside me, a storm of hostility practically crackles around Daniel. From my periphery, I notice the fingers not holding the cash flex as if he’s itching to draw his weapon. A second later, he slides the money into his pocket, freeing that hand as if preparing for an altercation.
Clay edges past his friend, and when he sets his gaze on me, his grin can only be described as cruel and ugly. His eyes might crinkle at the edges, but they gleam with maliciousness as they volley between Daniel and me.
“Well, well, well…” When I don’t bother responding to them, Clay clears his throat and increases his volume, ensuring people ten blocks away can hear him. “Why don’t you introduce us to your friend?”
With a withering glare, I keep my voice calm. “I’m scarred, not deaf, asshole.”
The cashier tosses a worried glance our way as she hurriedly finishes ringing up the other diners.
“Oooh-wee,” Porter hoots as he advances a few steps toward us. His Southern accent grows even thicker. “Think we mighta struck a nerve.”
Clay follows suit. “Yeah. Think she got herself a boyfriend.” Of course, Clay veers even closer to me, violating my personal space.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I know better than to engage with these assclowns, but after the morning I’ve had, they’ve just obliterated what’s left of my damn patience.
When Clay reaches out and flicks where my ponytail has fallen over my shoulder, a palpable shift electrifies the air. Daniel’s hand shoots out, fingers manacling Clay’s wrist, and he torques it.
His features are drawn bowstring tight. Earlier, I thought he’d granted me a view of the intimidating motherfucker he normally is.
I was severely mistaken.
This is Daniel Madrano, second-in-command of The Scorpions. This is the murderer. The master intimidator.
Daniel’s voice isn’t just steely but fortified with rebar. “Guess you never learned to ask for permission before touchin’ a lady, huh?” The temperature feels like it drops twenty degrees, his voice arctic.
Of course, Clay and Porter don’t have a lick of sense between them. Even while Clay attempts to resist Daniel’s hold, face turning red, he lets out a grunt-laugh. “Lady? I didn’t touch no lady.”
Porter snickers. “Nope. He definitely didn’t touch no lady.”
An ominous premonition settles over me a moment. Nobody’s going to back down. These two assclowns are too stupid to do that, and there’s no way in hell Daniel will. Evidently, he has some ingrained protector mode when it comes to women, and it’s been activated.
I’m proven right when Porter pulls out his switchblade—seriously, what is it with people and fucking knives around here?—and flicks it open, taunting Daniel. “You don’t know who you’re messin’ with, but you’re gonna regret it.”
Daniel doesn’t show any visible reaction aside from the tense lines framing his mouth. “Doubtful.” When his free hand discreetly moves to his back near where his gun is holstered, I know I need to act fast.
Overwrought with panic pulsing through my veins, my heart races while my hands grow shaky. I don’t hesitate to do it; I press my finger and thumb together, and everything stills. The exhale that falls from my mouth is audible in the silence.
Zero hesitation blankets my movement when I raise my hand and slap Clay across the face. His cheek instantly blooms with color, but that only offers a slight balm to my anger.
I slide Porter’s knife from his grasp, flip it closed, and pluck the cash from Daniel’s pocket before slamming both the money and knife on the cashier’s counter.
Quickly prying Daniel’s fingers free of Clay’s wrist, the swift shove I give Clay sends him tumbling into Porter, and the two topple to the floor, bodies still rigid.
I’m about to restart time when a deep familiar voice mutters, “The fuck?”
My body goes rigid with alarm as my eyes fly to Daniel. Because everyone else is still paused in time.
Except for him.
The fuck, indeed.
30
DANIEL
This can’t be fucking happening.
I scan the entire restaurant, but every single person looks like they’ve been frozen in time. It’s like somebody pressed pause.
Mac’s eyes widen and her face pales, lips parting in surprise. Jesus fucking Christ. She’s not the one who should be looking shocked.
“The fuck is goin’ on.” I grind out the words, phrasing it as a demand instead of a question. Damn if the hairs on the back of my neck aren’t standing on end.
I’ve watched Bronson’s wife, Georgia, briefly revive my sister, and that’s freaky as hell. Witnessing a man turn invisible, who has the power to turn me invisible, too, fucked with my mind.