Page 9 of Unleashed
"We do own this town," Colten says, casual as a weather report. "We literally own this bar."
"Strutting around like you're untouchable?—"
Brady really needs to learn when to shut the fuck up.
"Because we are, weren’t you listening?" Jett adds helpfully.
Brady's face goes from red to purple. His hand shoots out and grabs my hat right off my head.
Everything goes silent.
I look at my hat in his hand. Then I look at him. Motherfucker. Wrong hat. Wrong man.
"You've got about two seconds to put that back on my head," I say, and my voice comes out low and nothing like a man who's had ten beers. "Before I put you through that wall."
He grins.
He really shouldn't have.
He throws the first punch. I'll give him that. His right hook comes in wide and sloppy, and I duck it so clean the breeze ruffles my hair. My fist connects with his ribs before he's even finished his swing. He buckles. And I snatch my hat out of his hand mid-fall and put it back on my head.
"Told you." I say smugly.
Then the whole bar explodes.
One of his Ranch 42 boys comes at Colten with a pool cue. Colten catches it mid-swing, rips it out of his hands, and cracks it over his knee. The guy stands there blinking, hands empty, and Colten headbutts him so hard the sound echoes off the rafters. He drops like a sack of feed.
Jett, because he's Jett, is already on top of the bar. His brother, Tate, beside him. He takes a running leap off the edge and tackles two of them at once, all three of them crashing through a high-top table in a shower of beer bottles and broken glass. He comes up swinging, laughing, blood streaming from a cut above his eyebrow, and lands a right cross that sends one of them spinning into the jukebox.
A bottle shatters against the bar next to my head. I turn. Another Ranch 42 boy, this one bigger than Brady, with a neck like a goddamn tree trunk, is squared up and coming at me.
"Oh, come on," I groan, dodging his first swing. "I was having a nice night."
He swings again. I slip left, pop him twice in the jaw, the way Dad taught us in the barn when we were kids, and follow it with an uppercut that lifts him onto his toes. His eyes roll. His knees buckle, and just like that, it’s lights out.
I let go. He hits the floor.
I grab a barstool and crack it across the back of a guy who's got Jett in a headlock. Jett pops free, spits blood on the floor, and grins at me with red teeth.
"Happy birthday, cuz."
"Best one yet." I laugh.
Then a voice cuts through the chaos.
"Enough," Hunter roars.
Hunter steps into the middle of the brawl. He doesn't shout. He doesn't need to. He's got Brady by the throat. The way you'd hold a dog by the scruff. Brady's feet are barely touching the ground, his hands clawing at Hunter's wrist.
"Listen to me carefully," Hunter says. The whole bar is silent now. Even the jukebox seems quieter. "You and your boys are going to stand up, walk out that door, and drive back to Ranch 42. You're not going to come back here. You're not going to talk about tonight. And if I hear a single word in town come out of anyone's mouth in connection to this little stunt, I will come visit your boss personally. And Brady?"
He leans in close.
"I won't be in a good mood. Tell Carson that."
He lets go. Brady drops, gasping and clutching his throat. His boys are already moving, peeling themselves off the floor, wipingblood from their faces, not making eye contact with anyone. One of them has to be carried. Jett waves at him cheerfully.
"Drive safe, fellas! I’ve heard it’s quite relaxing if you find a cliff and drive right off it," he calls out.
