asshole who came at Sloan, was that he used pain as his motivation to win.
“Be careful.” He heard Becky’s whispered words behind him, but didn’t respond.
“Well, are you going to use that thing or play with it all night?” Sloan finally grew tired of waiting for the idiot to make his move.
Sloan’s question slowed the man’s showboating down at little as he hesitated. “Hey, I’m in charge here,” the man slurred, his eyes narrowing.
“Yeah, well, fuck that.” Sloan had the man by the throat and the knife out of his hand before the asshole could blink. “You plan on using that knife on the lady?”
The man’s eyes bugged out of his head from lack of air. He tried to sputter some words, but Sloan squeezed his throat too tightly.
Sloan pulled out his phone and made a call. “Need you down at Riverboat Row by the Beer Sellar.” He put his phone back in his pocket before looking back at the guy. “Not much of a badass now, are you?”
The man finally passed out and went limp. Tossing him to the ground, Sloan then turned to look at Becky. Wide-eyed, she stared at the unconscious man.
“Did you kill him?” she whispered.
“Not yet,” Sloan replied, his eyes narrowed in anger. “And if Duncan doesn’t get here before the bastard wakes up, I make no promises.”
Chapter 8
One minute Becky was reflecting on life as she stared at the river and the next she was watching Sloan grab a knife-wielding man by the throat. Where in the hell had he come from? She had checked out the area before climbing off her scooter and heading down to the bench she always sat at, and saw no one.
Without Sloan saying a word, she knew he was pissed and not just at the knocked-out man.
“What in the hell are you doing out here this time of night, alone?” Sloan’s voice was stern, as if he were talking to a child.
“I, ah….” Becky was a little taken back by his anger toward her and actually, she didn’t appreciate being talked to that way.
He didn’t let her continue. “Why are you riding that damn deathmobile? Where is the fucking car?”
“It’s, ah….” Becky tried again, her anger boiling close to the surface.
“And why are you not wearing a helmet?” He continued down a list of things he was obviously pissed about.
She started to open her mouth, then shut it to make sure he was finished. He wasn’t.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened to you if I hadn’t been here?” Sloan got louder with each question he asked, but he wouldn’t shut up long enough for her to answer. When she just stood there staring at him, he threw up his hands. “Well?”
“Are you finished?” Becky put her hands on her hips.
Sloan glared at her for a second. “Yes, I am.”
“What are you doing here?” Becky asked, glaring back at him.
“I’m the one asking the questions!” he bellowed. When the man made a noise, Sloan put his large foot on the guy’s chest without even looking; he was too busy scowling at her.
“I answer to you between the hours of seven and four, Mr. Murphy.” She huffed, then turned to leave, but stopped and turned around to look at him. “I don’t know what I did to make you so angry at me, but thank you for well, you know.” She waved her hand toward the guy on the ground.
Becky walked away, realizing her shitty night just got shittier and had taken a nosedive straight to hell. So much for getting back on her feet. She probably didn’t have a job anymore, but seriously, did he have to get all crazy and start questioning her decisions like that? Hurrying to her scooter, she hopped on and took off, barely missing a car that was passing.
By the time she arrived home, she felt awful because honestly, everything Sloan had yelled about was for her safety. And how did she repay him? By acting like an ungrateful shrew. She knew why. Her ex-husband had always made her feel stupid, and she had felt Sloan’s questions were an attack against her judgment, which in turn
“Be careful.” He heard Becky’s whispered words behind him, but didn’t respond.
“Well, are you going to use that thing or play with it all night?” Sloan finally grew tired of waiting for the idiot to make his move.
Sloan’s question slowed the man’s showboating down at little as he hesitated. “Hey, I’m in charge here,” the man slurred, his eyes narrowing.
“Yeah, well, fuck that.” Sloan had the man by the throat and the knife out of his hand before the asshole could blink. “You plan on using that knife on the lady?”
The man’s eyes bugged out of his head from lack of air. He tried to sputter some words, but Sloan squeezed his throat too tightly.
Sloan pulled out his phone and made a call. “Need you down at Riverboat Row by the Beer Sellar.” He put his phone back in his pocket before looking back at the guy. “Not much of a badass now, are you?”
The man finally passed out and went limp. Tossing him to the ground, Sloan then turned to look at Becky. Wide-eyed, she stared at the unconscious man.
“Did you kill him?” she whispered.
“Not yet,” Sloan replied, his eyes narrowed in anger. “And if Duncan doesn’t get here before the bastard wakes up, I make no promises.”
Chapter 8
One minute Becky was reflecting on life as she stared at the river and the next she was watching Sloan grab a knife-wielding man by the throat. Where in the hell had he come from? She had checked out the area before climbing off her scooter and heading down to the bench she always sat at, and saw no one.
Without Sloan saying a word, she knew he was pissed and not just at the knocked-out man.
“What in the hell are you doing out here this time of night, alone?” Sloan’s voice was stern, as if he were talking to a child.
“I, ah….” Becky was a little taken back by his anger toward her and actually, she didn’t appreciate being talked to that way.
He didn’t let her continue. “Why are you riding that damn deathmobile? Where is the fucking car?”
“It’s, ah….” Becky tried again, her anger boiling close to the surface.
“And why are you not wearing a helmet?” He continued down a list of things he was obviously pissed about.
She started to open her mouth, then shut it to make sure he was finished. He wasn’t.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened to you if I hadn’t been here?” Sloan got louder with each question he asked, but he wouldn’t shut up long enough for her to answer. When she just stood there staring at him, he threw up his hands. “Well?”
“Are you finished?” Becky put her hands on her hips.
Sloan glared at her for a second. “Yes, I am.”
“What are you doing here?” Becky asked, glaring back at him.
“I’m the one asking the questions!” he bellowed. When the man made a noise, Sloan put his large foot on the guy’s chest without even looking; he was too busy scowling at her.
“I answer to you between the hours of seven and four, Mr. Murphy.” She huffed, then turned to leave, but stopped and turned around to look at him. “I don’t know what I did to make you so angry at me, but thank you for well, you know.” She waved her hand toward the guy on the ground.
Becky walked away, realizing her shitty night just got shittier and had taken a nosedive straight to hell. So much for getting back on her feet. She probably didn’t have a job anymore, but seriously, did he have to get all crazy and start questioning her decisions like that? Hurrying to her scooter, she hopped on and took off, barely missing a car that was passing.
By the time she arrived home, she felt awful because honestly, everything Sloan had yelled about was for her safety. And how did she repay him? By acting like an ungrateful shrew. She knew why. Her ex-husband had always made her feel stupid, and she had felt Sloan’s questions were an attack against her judgment, which in turn
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