Page 50 of Unguarded

Brooks looks down at the screen, following the blue dot to its exact location. He walks toward the entrance of the bar, entering through the large wooden door. Once inside, we’re greeted with a dozen sets of curious eyes taking in our American attire, which is now soaking wet. We’re tall, built, and arguably scary-looking. The interior of the bar is all wood tones and mood lighting. The locals are wearing bland, plaincolors. Smoke floats in the air from cigarettes stuck between the lips of a few of them as they study us.

My chest rises rapidly from the adrenaline coursing through my veins. My hand is on my hip, ready to draw my weapon if necessary. She’s here—I know she is.

Then, in the corner of the dive bar, I see a head of bright, curly blonde hair.

Blue.

She’s laughing, her head tilted back with the motion. A wave of relief rolls over me, but it doesn’t calm my racing pulse. Sitting next to her in the rounded booth is Ember with her violet-red hair. They’re not alone. My fist clenches tightly around the handle of my weapon.

My muscles tense as the two men sitting across from them come into focus. They’re both wearing suits, their shirts unbuttoned at the neck with loose ties. Their long hair is damp from the rain, and they seem wholly unaware of the three beefy American men glaring daggers at them from the doorframe.

“Well, at least they’re unharmed,” Brooks grumbles.

“Thank fuck,” Danny mumbles. “I’m calling Fidel.” He turns to leave.

An adrenaline rush has strange effects on the body. Even once the mind registers there’s no danger, it takes several minutes for the message to be conducted to all the proper channels—muscles, heart, lungs, nervous system.

My steps toward the corner booth are slow and steady, opposite of my pounding heart and screaming lungs from the run.

Ember spots us first, her smile fading abruptly. Shepeers up at me, wide eyes jumping from my face to Brooks’s, then back again. She visibly gulps.

Monroe either doesn’t sense us standing a few feet away or purposely ignores our presence as she leans forward and continues flirting with the blonde-haired Frenchman across from her. Her delicate fingers are curled around the stem of a wineglass. The man smiles, leaning forward as he reaches for her other hand. He makes the royal mistake of grasping her fingers and pulling them up to his lips. My tolerance for the situation crumbles when his mouth makes contact with her skin.

I reach for the glass of amber liquid on the table in front of him. He gapes at me as I lift it to my lips and drain the contents in one gulp.

“Ay! Who the fuck are you?” He rises from his seat.

I slam it back down on the table, rage clouding my vision and hindering my ability to think through my actions. I leave the gun in my holster, craving the opportunity to use just my fists to communicate all my complicated feelings about what’s happened.

A smile curls across my lips. “You fuckers ever been in a bar fight with a Texan?”

19

MONROE

Pure shock courses through me when Cash drains the bourbon, then slams the crystal glass down on the wooden table. A rare grin touches his lips.

“You fuckers ever been in a bar fight with a Texan?” His tone is genuinely filled with glee, the thick Texas accent more pronounced than usual.

Holy fuck …

I’ve never seen him like this. He’s actuallyitchingto beat this guy to a pulp. The broody, reserved cowboy has come unleashed, the rage and excitement in his green eyes glittering in the low light.

It is, unfortunately, hot as fuck.

“Who the hell are you?” the man across from him challenges.

Oh no.

I don’t think Claude has any idea what kind of bear he just poked. I gasp as Cash lunges forward and grabs him by the lapels of his suit coat.

“I’m the dick who’s about to decorate your face with pretty little bruises if you don’t exit this bar in less than five fucking seconds. Five. Four. Three?—”

Claude’s eyes widen with fear at the sudden display of aggression and the threatening tone in Cash’s voice. He’d be a complete moron not to. He throws up his hands and slides to the left, followed by his friend. Cash releases him with a shove toward the door.

“Of course! Ah, we were just leaving. We don’t want any trouble.” Claude gestures to Jean, who tosses a few euros on the table before quickly scurrying out behind him.

They practically run toward the door. Brooks follows them for a few steps. I huff, exhaling out an annoyed grunt as Cash slides into the booth Claude and Jean just exited, followed by Brooks.

---