Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

making him ineligible for the “honor” he’d been given at his birth. Soiling him into a permanent freedom, as it were.
    Problem was, if they’d sent AnsLai, the high priest, clearly that goal hadn’t been accomplished. Unless the visit had been to disavow him?
    He’d have heard from iAm on that, though. Wouldn’t he?
    Trez checked his phone. No VMs. No texts. He was in the doghouse with his brother again—unless iAm had decided to fuck all the bullshit and gone home to the tribe.
    Damn it—
    The sharp knock on his window didn’t just bring his head around. It brought his gun out.
    Trez frowned. Standing outside his car was a human male the size of a house. The guy had a beer belly, but his thick shoulders suggested he did regular physical labor, and that heavy, rigid jawline revealed both his Cro-Magnon ancestry as well as the kind of arrogance most common to big, dumb animals.
    With great, bull-like puffs of breath pouring from his flared nostrils, he leaned in and pounded on the window. With a fist as big as a football, natch.
    Well, obviously he wanted some attention, and what do you know. Trez was more than willing to give it to him.
    Without warning, he threw open the door, catching the guy right in the nuts. As the human staggered backward and grabbed for his crotch, Trez rose to his full height and tucked his gun into the small of his back, out of sight, but within easy reach.
    When Mr. Aggressive had recovered enough to look up, waaaaayup, he seemed to lose his enthusiasm for a moment. Then again, Trez had easily a foot and a half, and seventy-five, maybe a hundred pounds on the guy. In spite of that Dunlop he was sporting.
    “Are you looking for me,” Trez said. Read: Are you sure you want to do this, big guy?
    “Yeah. I is.”
    Okay, so both grammar and risk assessment were a problem for him. Probably had the same issue with single-digit adding and subtracting.
    “Am,” Trez said.
    “What?” Pronounced
whut
.
    “I believe it is, ‘Yeah, I am.’ Not ‘is.’”
    “You can kiss my ass. How ’bout that.” The guy came closer. “And stay away from her.”
    “Her?” That narrowed it down to what, a hundred thousand people?
    “My girl. She don’t want you, she don’t need you, and she ain’t gonna have you no more.”
    “Who exactly are we talking about? I’m going to need a name.” And maybe even that wouldn’t help.
    In lieu of an answer, the guy took a swing. It was likely meant to be a sucker punch, but the windup was so slow and laborious, the goddamn thing could have come with subtitles.
    Trez caught that fist with his hand, palming it like a basketball. And then with a quick twist he had the piece of beef turned around and held in place—proof positive that pressure points worked, and the wrist was one of ’em.
    Trez spoke into the man’s ear, just so the ground rules were clearly received. “You do that again, and I’m going to break every bone in your hand. At once.” He punctuated that with a jerk that left the guy whimpering. “And then I’m going to work on your arm. Followed by your neck—which you will not walk away from. Now, what the fuck are you talking about.”
    “She were here last night.”
    “Lot of women were. Can you be more specific—”
    “He means me.”
    Trez looked over. Oh…fucking wonderful.
    It was the chick who’d gone apeshit, his happy little stalker.
    “I tole you I got this!” her BF shouted.
    Yeah, uh-huh, the guy really looked in control of things. So apparentlyboth of them were into delusion—and maybe that explained the relationship: He thought she was a supermodel, and she assumed he had a brain.
    “Is this yours?” Trez asked the woman. “Because if it is, would you take it home with you, before you need a bucket loader to clean up the mess?”
    “I tole you not to come here,” the woman said. “What you doing here?”
    Annnnd more evidence of why these two were a match made in heaven.
    “How about I let the pair of you sort this out?” Trez suggested.
    “I’m in love with him!”
    For a split second, the response didn’t compute. But then, trashy accent aside, the shit sank in: The floozy was talking about
him
.
    As Trez gave the woman the hairy eyeball, he realized this particular casual fuck had gone into the weeds in a
big
way.
    “You are not!”
    Well, at least the boyfriend used the verb correctly this time.
    “Yes, I am!”
    And that was when everything FUBARed. The bull launched himself at the