Colson came up beside me. “Who knew there’d be so many hot pieces of ass in this shit warehouse?”

I turned toward him. “Give any of them a shot, and you’ll probably find yourself bleeding on the floor.”

Ryder shrugged off my comment. “Go get your shit. I’ll wait.”

He was gone before I could tell him he didn’t need to wait around for me. But then again, he was my only ally in a building full of people who undoubtedly would have preferred to see me KO’d on the floor of the ring. Just one more place I’d never be welcome.

Good thing I didn’t give a fuck.

I’d showed up, gone toe-to-toe with Con, and had taken back a piece of my pride. That was enough.

For today.

I was already thinking of hiring a trainer as I went for my bag.

“Not interested. Save your breath.”

“Come on, baby. You have a better offer tonight?”

“Do I look like a whore to you? And a desperate one at that? Because I’m not.”

I followed the voices as I strode across the black-and-white checkered floor that started at the door to the gym and led down the hallway to the building exit. The conversation was coming from a doorway on the right, a giant commercial kitchen with a huge prep table and stainless steel appliances.

The woman in teal and pink was standing in front of a cupboard, stretching as one hand reached high inside. Ryder Colson stood nearby, leaning against the prep table in front of the fridge.

“Sweetheart, you don’t look like a whore to me, but—”

“Colson.” My friend’s name came out sharp on my tongue, and I didn’t take any time to assess why that might be—or why irritation and possessiveness spread through my veins. I’d just watched Vanessa fuss over Con’s bloody face, and it was another reminder that I’d missed my shot with her.

Both Colson and the woman turned their attention to me.

“You ready to go?” I asked him, and he shrugged.

“Ms. Santos and I were getting acquainted.”

“Is that what we were doing?” the woman snapped. “Because I thought you were being a dick who didn’t understand I’m not interested.”

Her name jogged my memory. Yve Santos. I remembered her from the charity auction. She’d modeled a piece of jewelry; a necklace, I think. But I hadn’t even looked at it, too caught up in the way her red dress had clung to every curve of her killer body. I’d wanted to fuck her then, even though my eyes had spent ninety-nine percent of the night on Vanessa.

Not surprisingly, Yve still looked as gorgeous as she had that night.

“You can leave, Colson,” I said, giving him a pointed look.

His expression darkened before his cheeks reddened with embarrassment. He’d have to get over it. If she were going to spend tonight in anyone’s bed, it would be mine.

He scowled in Yve’s direction before pushing past me and stalking through the doorway. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Titan,” he called over his shoulder.

My eyes found Yve again. “He bother you?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Did he bother you?” I repeated.

“You’re bothering me.”

I studied the flush coloring her dusky cheeks, and the subtle rise and fall of her chest. “I think you like it.”

“And I think you should follow your friend right out that door,” she shot back. “I’m not interested in what either of you have to offer.” And with that she was gone, heading for the same door that Colson had exited a moment before.

Women didn’t walk away from me. It was completely unacceptable.

I stalked after her.

“I’ll walk you out.” It wasn’t an offer. I was simply doing whatever the hell I wanted, just like I always did.

That laugh with its husky, sexy tone rang through the hallway. “I can take care of myself, Titan. Don’t need a rich man to do it for me.” The door swung open at her touch and slammed behind her.

I paused as the realization hit me. She knows who I am.

Good.

She was going to know a lot more of me.

“MOTHER EFFING CHRIST.” I BANGED my hands on my steering wheel. “Don’t do this to me now, you piece of—” I cut off my words, as if not insulting my car would somehow help the engine sputter back to life. I turned the key again. Nothing.

I popped the hood latch and got out of the car, slinging my purse over my shoulder. In this neighborhood, it might have seemed like a dumb move to get out of the car and bring my purse, but I wasn’t helpless. I was locked and loaded with my .38 Special. Ever since Elle had dragged me to the shooting range with her one night, I’d been hooked on the idea of being able to protect myself. The only question I couldn’t answer was: why hadn’t I done it sooner?

Although if I had, I’d probably be in prison right now.

After propping the hood open like I knew what I was doing, I stared down at the steam rising off the radiator—at least I thought that was where it was coming from. I didn’t know jack about cars. Nope, I was more likely to find vintage Chanel at a roadside antique shop than to figure out what had gone wrong with my semi-reliable Jetta. But my Blue Beast was getting old; she was going on seventeen.

Shaking my head when looking under the hood gave me no answers, I dug into my purse and pulled out my cell phone. I scrolled through the contacts, teeth gritted. I hated asking for help, hated having to admit that I couldn’t take care of my problems myself. But sometimes a girl didn’t have a choice. Cousin Stevie’s Happy Hookers would be a lot cheaper than—

My thoughts were cut off as a sleek dark gray sports car slowed to a stop beside the Blue Beast and me. What I knew about cars could fill a shoebox, but even I recognized expensive when I saw it. The darkened passenger side window lowered as I reached back into my purse, wanting the comfort of my Smith & Wesson in my grip. Just in case.

I relaxed a fraction when green eyes set beneath dark brows pierced me.

“Trouble, Ms. Santos?”

Lucas Titan. The same asshole who’d landed a cheap shot in Con’s balls, and whose friend thought I looked like an easy pickup tonight.

“I’ve got it handled.”

One dark eyebrow lifted and he pulled away, but he didn’t go far. No, he pulled up and parked in front of the Blue Beast, and his driver’s side door opened.