Getting Rowdy. Lori Foster

again. Each step he took narrowed his focus until it became a single laser beam of driving purpose.

      People shifted out of the way as the two of them went through the bar and out the front door. Chill evening air filled Rowdy’s lungs, helping to clear away the haze of blistering rage. A restless breeze played over his fevered muscles, reminding him to relax.

      Battles were always best fought with a cool head and limber muscles.

      “I’ll take the jukebox,” the bully said again, “and a few cases of whiskey. That’s a bargain for you.”

      Keeping a tight leash on his emotions, Rowdy stayed two steps behind. “We’ll talk about it near your truck.” And if he found what he thought he would, then God help the man.

      At the alley beside the bar, they turned to head around back. The security lights Rowdy had installed helped to light the dark alleyway, which had discouraged hookers, dopers and gangs from hanging out there.

      He had a clear path to the back lot—a lot where only employees should have been parked.

      Rowdy stepped out of the alley and faced a nightmare, his worst suspicions confirmed.

      The fucking bully had sealed his own fate.

      He’d brought along a kid.