CHAPTER 3
One moment the small guy with the PROSPECT patch on his vest is laughing after squeezing one of my t**s. And in the next moment, his head is being smashed into the bar—courtesy of Waylon's hand fisted in the back of his hair.
The biker I haven’t seen since we walked into the roadhouse slams the smaller man's face down once—twice—three deliberate times.
And when he draws the smaller prospect up a fourth time, his face is a mess of blood and broken teeth.
“She’s mine,” Waylon tells him, his voice little more than a feral growl. “You shouldn’t have ever dared to touch her.”
The prospect makes a sound that could either be a bloody cough or a death rattle.
Then Waylon unfists his hand, releasing him as if their “conversation” is done.
And the prospect collapses to the ground as
