CHAPTER SIX

      SITTING ON THE ground outside the open truck door, his knees pulled up to his skinny chest, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans too short, the boy huddled against a rear tire. Rowdy guessed him to be eight, maybe nine years old. When the boy saw them, he jumped to his feet, his skinny chest working, his gaze filled with wariness.

      “Who’s this?” Rowdy asked.

      “He’s nobody. Don’t worry about it.”

      Nobody. Rowdy forced himself to breathe calmly. “Is he your son?”

      “That’s what the bitch says.” Not realizing his own peril, the guy laughed. “The runt don’t really look like me though, does he?”

      A strange sort of peace settled over Rowdy. He knew what it was, because he’d felt it before. A defense mechanism. A way to push aside emotion so that only cold, lethal intent remained. It was how he’d coped back then, and how he would cope right now. “Where’s his coat?”

      “How the fuck do I know?”

      Chills had the boy trembling. And damn it, Rowdy shook with him. “What’s your name, kid?”

      The boy put up his chin, silent, miserable. Afraid to speak.

      Impatient, the thug barked, “Get back in the truck, Marcus.” And then to Rowdy, “I told you, his mom had shit to do so I had to drag him along. He won’t be a problem. He knows to stay out of the way. Now forget about him, will you?”

      “No, actually, I won’t.” Despite the man’s order, Marcus didn’t move, and damn, Rowdy wanted to make him understand. He met the boy’s gaze. “Sorry, Marcus.” I’m about to shake up your world.

      Maybe Marcus did catch on, because his eyes went wide—and suddenly Avery opened the back door of the bar. She looked...he didn’t know. He’d never seen her look like that before.

      She flashed an uncertain and very false smile. “I’m sorry to intrude. I figured the young man should come in with me while you two...negotiate your business.”

      Was that her nice way of saying, While you kill that no-good SOB?

      Belligerence amplified the man’s bloodshot eyes. “He’s staying with me.”

      Before Rowdy could bury his fist in the man’s face, Avery half stepped out, not so far as to put herself at risk, but far enough to intrude and make the bully want her to back off. “Oh, but you know what they say. Little pitchers have big ears. I’m sure you men would like to keep this conversation private.”

      The man’s eyes narrowed on the kid. “He knows to keep his trap shut.”

      Volcanic rage expanded Rowdy’s chest. He pushed past the man and put a hand on Marcus’s narrow shoulder. “Go on in, okay? She’ll get you something to drink.”

      The boy dug in. “I’m not thirsty.”

      Rowdy had expected that answer, because long, long ago, he’d given it a few times himself. To expedite things before his fragile thread of control snapped, he hardened his tone. “In.”

      “Do what you’re told!” The man drew back a hand, ready to belt the boy.

      Rowdy flattened one hand to the bastard’s chest and shoved him back hard. The single-word command cut through the night: “Don’t.”

      Taken by surprise, the man floundered. “What the fuck?”

      “Oh, and Rowdy?” Avery got the boy inside and leaned out again. “In case you needed help moving the jukebox, I called Logan.” And with that parting shot, she closed the door.

      Rowdy narrowed his eyes. He finally had the man alone, and here Avery had snatched away his opportunity by calling in the law.

      Had she known all along what he planned to do? Probably. Avery was cagey that way. Very little got by her.

      The man shoved back from Rowdy’s hold. “I’m owed more than the jukebox for all my trouble. Like I said, a few cases of whiskey will help, but—”

      Fury closed in, narrowing his vision. “All you’ll get from me is the beating you deserve.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      Egging him on, Rowdy said, “You’re a coward, a sloppy drunk and I’m going to enjoy taking you apart.” Rarely did he ever hit first. He’d learned that in the legal world, words were allowed, but first contact was frowned upon.

      Predictably, what he said enraged the man enough that he threw a big, meaty punch. Rowdy ducked, but not in time. The blow connected with his shoulder and knocked him off balance. He dropped to one knee, then braced for the impact of a tackle.

      They went into the sharp gravel; it cut into Rowdy’s spine and shoulders before he rolled, shoving the heavier man to the side. Now with the gravel assaulting his knees, Rowdy pounded the other man with several heavy hits, catching him in his fat gut, his solar plexus, his chin.

      The smell of blood blinded him to everything else. He hit harder and heard the bully’s nose break. His knuckles hurt, but it was a small price to pay for the pleasure he got in his retaliation.

      When Rowdy got back to his feet, the big man rolled, trying to grab for his legs. Rowdy kicked out and got him in the nuts.

      That took the fight right out of him.

      Out of the shadows, a man said, “Jesus, Darrell, you fucking puke. If you can’t hold your own, then don’t start this shit.”

      Breathing hard and fast, Rowdy turned, and another man appeared. He flashed a grin—and a big tactical knife with a serrated blade.

      “You should have given me my money,” Darrell grunted as he struggled up to his knees.

      “Fuck you.” Rowdy didn’t know the second man, but he knew Darrell, the abusive prick.

      He kicked him in the chin, rendering him flat on his back, out cold.

      Immediately Rowdy turned to fend off the knife wielder, but the second guy was on him too fast. As Rowdy lunged away, he felt the blade slice over his shoulder and down his back. Liquid heat ran along his nerve endings.

      Not that he’d let it slow him down. A lifetime of hatred kept the pain at bay. Any man who abused his kid deserved a beating—and so much more.

      With singular purpose, Rowdy dodged the next thrust of the knife and got in a solid punch that staggered the man. It didn’t take him down, though; it only pissed him off, wiping that smirking grin right off his face.

      Keeping the knife at the ready, he spit blood to the side. “You’re dead meat, asshole.”

      Coiled, ready, Rowdy smiled and beckoned him forward. “Let’s go, then.”

      Sirens pierced the night, not an unfamiliar occurrence, but Rowdy figured this time it was Logan sticking his cop nose in where it wasn’t wanted.

      Time to wrap this up.

      The man circled to the side, but Rowdy moved with him, slowly closing the space between them. “You’ve got the knife,” Rowdy taunted. “What are you waiting for?”

      The fool charged at the same time that Rowdy adjusted his stance to kick out—and he broke the man’s elbow. The knife fell from his hand and into the rough gravel. Rowdy moved in, punching him in the face, once, twice, a third time.

      Dropping to his knees, the man swayed.

      With one final kick to the chin, Rowdy sent him backward in a heap.

      Behind