Page 20 of Resist

“Your brother gonna be home?”

Ainsley got a sick pleasure out of the murderous way Coulton asked that. Like he was hoping to keep the night’s brawling going.

“Probably not, considering he sent those guys tometo pay his debt. He’ll lay low. Either at a friend’s house, or maybe he’ll find some woman stupid enough to sleep with him. Won’t see him anytime soon because he’s a coward.”

“He sent those men here,” he said, no question in his voice. She got the sense he was repeating those words simply to make them sink in.

“I was getting things under control,” she lied, uncertain if she was trying to convince him or console herself.

Coulton pierced her with a look that told her she most definitely wasn’t gettinganythingunder control.

She lowered her head, looking at the floor. “What was happening…” She paused, her brain skipping over how closely she’d come to being sexually assaulted. “It wasgoingto happen, Coulton. I didn’t have enough money to pay them.”

“Jesus,” he muttered. “They were going to?—”

“But they didn’t,” she cut him off, unable to hear that word.

He reached for his cell.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling the cops,” he replied.

She put her hand over his, pushing his phone down. “No. They don’t come here. Besides, the guys got some money. I doubt they’ll come back after the ass-whooping we just handed them.”

She wished she could believe that was true, but the fact was, they were still shy about eight hundred dollars and now had an ax to grind.

“Ainsley. You were assaulted and robbed. You need to file a report.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand how things work around here.”

Coulton had gotten stiller and quieter with each of her responses. Then his gaze drifted lower, not in the creepy way most guys looked at her. Instead, she got the feeling he was checking her over to make sure she was okay.

She followed his gaze, cussing when she realized her shirt was torn and hanging open, her tatty black bra showing. “Goddammit. They ripped my favorite shirt.”

“Get your stuff,” Coulton said darkly.

She glanced up at him. “What?”

“Your stuff. Get it,” he replied, enunciating every word like she was four cards short of a deck.

She wanted to take offense, but she also wanted to go home, lick her wounds, and crawl into bed for the next thirty years or so.

So she did something she never did. Followed an order.

Walking to the register, she took out the crappy few one-dollar bills the assholes left behind. She’d pulled a ten-hour shift and had all of seven dollars and twelve cents to show for it.

She shoved the bills into a bank bag and locked it into the safe behind her. Only she and Mick had the combination, something that made Eli see red every time she opened it to lock their money away from him. Because of the previous muggings she’d mentioned, neither she nor Mick ever carried cash out of here at night, doing their bank deposits in the bright sunshine of morning, when there were a lot more people out and about.

Once the safe was closed, she grabbed her purse, glancing around at the destruction. Several of the barstools had been knocked over in her attempt to scale the counter to escape. A few other tables and chairs were askew from their brawl, and one table—the one Coulton had thrown Luigi into—was damaged beyond repair and headed to the dumpster tomorrow. Her baseball bat lay in the middle of the floor.

She started to bend over to pick up one of the stools.

“What are you doing?”

“I should…” She sighed.

“Leave it,” Coulton said. “You should leave it.”

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