Page 30 of Everest

I sidestep, grab his shirt collar, and slam him into the wall hard enough to make his head crack against the brick. “You want to walk away,” I say quietly. “Or you want to leave here without teeth?”

He struggles against my hold, trying to shove back, but he’s sloppy. The bastard’s pride is writing checks his ass can’t cash. “Fuck you.” He spits, then looks right past me at London. She’s standing there, arms crossed, with a half-smile on her lips. It’s not for him, but it’s enough to set the motherfucker off. He sneers. “What the fuck are you grinning at, whore. Why don’t you get over here and suck my dick, bitch.”

My vision flashes red.

One punch.

His nose shatters beneath my knuckles before his head jerks back, then down before his body crumples, out before he hits the concrete.

I stare down at him, blood already trickling from his nose. My breathing is slow and tight, my fists still clenched at my sides, and my pulse hammering in my ears. I didn’t hit the fucker for me. I did it because I’ll be damned if a man spits filth, disrespecting London. No one talks to her like that. Not on my watch.

I shift my gaze to his woman, frozen nearby. “Get him the fuck out of here.”

She hurries to wake him, muttering curses while giving the asshole a couple of slaps to his face to rouse him. When he finally comes to, they walk away.

London lets out a slow breath. “Well, that was subtle.”

I glance at her. “If you hadn’t been out here marking your territory, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Excuse me?”

"You heard me.”

"I was trying to help.”

“Didn’t need it.”

London steps closer. “You didn’t look like you minded. I’m willing to bet you enjoyed it.” She calls me out.

There’s heat in the air.

It’s not from the weather or the fight.

It’s from us.

London steps back, her eyes dancing with something more than the sass she's throwing my way. “Let the others know I’m out for the night.”

“Runnin’?” I challenge why she’s leaving.

“From what?”

“You tell me, babe,” I press, holding her in place with my stare.

She doesn’t answer—simply glares at me before turning and walking away.

And just like every other time I watch her, my mind is racing with everything I keep bottled up.

London isn’t mine yet.

But mark my words, one of these nights, she will be.

10

LONDON

Sitting in court, watching Judge Hoffman’s face turn red, fills me with giddiness. I have to keep that shit under wraps, though. I keep my expression neutral. I can’t say the same for the opposing counsel sitting to my left. I’ll admit, I don’t feel bad for Marsha Drexler. I don’t feel bad for any woman who would go against the girl code and stand beside a piece of shit, man.

Marsha’s client, Adam Kiefer, has been subjecting his ex-wife to a long and drawn-out custody battle involving their two-year-old son. The former Mrs. Kiefer, now Ms. Baxter, had been diagnosed with breast cancer while pregnant with their son. Mr. Kiefer wanted her to end the pregnancy, seeing as it wasn’t planned, and he didn’t want children. Ms. Baxter, however, chose to keep her baby and forgo any treatment for her cancer until the baby was born. Her prognosis hadn’t been good. Not to mention, Mr. Kiefer filed for divorce when she was seven months pregnant.

---