Chapter Thirteen

“What are you doing?” Fighter snapped at the man drilling at the wood of the front door frame. It was one o’clock in the fucking morning.

The man slanted him a slow glance, shifted the tool belt on his hips, and went back to drilling for a moment.

“Fixing the door. What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“I can see that, but I didn’t hire you.”

“The building owner did.” The man frowned, his bushy eyebrows scrunched together beneath his beanie, and put another screw in a new hinge.

That was odd. How the hell had his landlord known the door was broken? Why would his landlord, who was more of a slumlord, hire someone to come this late at night? He wanted to fire off a ton of questions, but he needed that damned door fixed more than anything right now so he kept his mouth shut.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten lucky. Because he sure the hell could use some luck right then.

However, he suspected Brick had had a hand in this and that left a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t want to owe that man a fucking thing. Too tired to even think any further, he waited while the contractor finished the door and handed him the keys. The man refused his offer of making payments and left.

Fuck it. He had bigger problems to deal with than money for a door on a building he didn’t even own.

The next morning, Syn stepped through the new door of the Suwan Guardians building and glanced around. It looked like the place was open for business, so that was nice.

Before he could take another step inside, he was crushed against the chipped paint of the nearby wall. His back hit with a painful slam and he grunted.

“You’re in the wrong place, Houston,” a husky voice growled near his face.

“Fuck you. Get off me.” Syn shoved, but Bishop wasn’t moving. Syn gnashed his teeth.

The man was built like a linebacker, six feet four inches tall and thick with arms like tree trunks. Curly, dark hair fell to his shoulders and some strands caught in the five o’clock shadow along the man’s jaw. The roughness scratched at Syn’s cheek.

“What do you want?” Bishop snarled quietly next to his ear.

Syn turned his face away as goose bumps swam over his skin. He focused on the far wall, anything to avoid looking into the asshole’s cold blue eyes.

“I have a message for Fighter,” Syn said through his teeth.

Bishop leaned more heavily against him; arms, chest, and thighs keeping him pinned. Even through his heavy winter coat, he could feel every inch of Bishop. The man’s breath ghosted over his neck.

Fucking hell.

Syn made a sound in his throat. “I will punch you in the nuts if you don’t back the fuck off.”

The low chuckle vibrated from Bishop’s chest and pulsed against Syn’s own.

“And how are you going t—” The air left Bishop’s lungs when Syn grabbed and fisted his junk through his pants. “Shit!”

Syn squeezed hard. It was a move his brother had taught him and it worked well. He didn’t really need to punch nor did he need to be free to make it hurt. Just power in his fisted grip.

Bishop fell back doubled over, and Syn walked past the man on his way to the back hallway.

From what Brick had said, Fighter was at the back of the building with his two little children.

Hearing footsteps charging after him, Syn spun and ducked. Bishop’s arms sailed over his head. He may not have the strength to win in a fistfight with Bishop, but he was much faster than the damned Hulk.

“You little…”

“Bishop.” Fighter’s voice stopped the big man in his tracks. Bishop glared, but stilled with his chest heaving.

“Who are you?” Fighter turned his eyes on Syn.

Syn could see why his brother was so enthralled with Fighter. Sure, he got that they hated each other, but in his mind, hate was pretty close to the same emotion that drove love.

“I’m Syn. Brick’s younger brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

Syn snorted with a smile, keeping Bishop in his peripheral just in case the guy lunged at him.

“Thanks. Anyway, the landlord is sending someone to further upgrade the building.”

“Further?” Fighter’s eyes flicked to the new door.

“Yeah, they’ll be installing bars on the windows and reinforcing the structure to make it warmer.” Syn slapped at his arms through the coat. “It’s damned cold in here.”

“What did Brick do?” Fighter hissed, his nostrils flaring.

“It’s not only your building, they are upgrading several blocks.” Syn smiled with satisfaction. He’d been able to get more than just this block to upgrade. Come to find out, most business owners wanted to fix up their places, they’d just lacked the money to invest.

Fighter wanted to argue, but it wasn’t Brick’s brother who was at fault.

About to turn away, the front door opened and a man who worked for Allen Cook stepped inside. Fighter held the guy’s eyes across the distance.

Bishop spun. “Can we help you?”

The man in the suit didn’t look at Bishop, but instead gazed straight at Fighter.

“I have a message for you,” the man said.

Fighter went cold and then hot as his heart slammed against his ribs. Was Cook responsible for last night? Fucking hell.

The man’s eyes flicked to Bishop, then Syn, before he held out a folded piece of paper. Bishop stepped closer and took the paper. Before anyone could speak, the man walked out.

Bishop scowled at Syn and handed the paper to Fighter.

Fighter flipped the note open.

Meet me at Parks Coffee house at noon tomorrow if you don’t want a repeat of last night.

Whatever this was, wasn’t his fucking problem. Syn had delivered his message. His shoulder knocked Bishop out of his way, but the fucker didn’t move. When Syn went to pass, Bishop grabbed him by the shirt, fisted both hands in the white button down shirt, and Syn felt one of the buttons give way.

“Oh, no you didn’t.” Syn lifted his knee. Yeah, it was a dick move, but the guy got on his last fucking nerve. Before he could land his blow, a few things happened simultaneously.

“Mark! No!” Fighter shouted and neither Syn nor Bishop had a chance to respond.

Pain exploded at the back of Syn’s head and the room whooshed in and out.

Bishop growled like an enraged panther and Syn felt his knees give out.

“What the fuck!” Bishop caught Syn before he could hit the ground. Dropping to his knees, he cradled Syn’s slighter frame in his lap while Fighter verbally tore Mark a new asshole.

“He was attacking Bishop!” Mark shouted back.

“You fucking dick. Get the fuck out of my sight before I get up from the floor.” Bishop’s rage swept through the room and Fighter shoved at Mark.

“Go now. Get out and don’t come back until I call you.”

Mark ran.

Fighter crouched next to Bishop. He’d never before seen Bishop’s face so paper white—his shaky fingers combed through the pretty man’s hair.

“I can’t find blood. Tell me if he’s bleeding,” Bishop choked.

Fighter scooted around the other side of Syn. Fucking hell, this was all he needed. Brick’s baby brother attacked at his place of business. Gently, he parted through Syn’s hair, hoping like hell that it wasn’t serious.

“No blood, but I see a knot. We should take him to the urgent care down a few blocks over just in case.”

“Syn?” Bishop murmured, brushing his fingers along the man’s jaw.

Fighter sat back on his heels and waited. He could certainly understand Bishop’s enthrallment with the man in his arms. Syn was without a doubt, one of the sexiest men he’d ever met. Totally not his type, but to Bishop, who always went for the slender darlings, Syn fit that mold perfectly. Only one drawback, the man had Brick as a brother.

“Shit. If Brick finds out about this, we are dead meat.”

“Syn?” Bishop ignored him and continued cupping the side of Syn’s head, brushing his thumb along his jaw.

“How long has he been out?”

“It can’t be more than a few minutes.”

“Shit.”

“I’m awake,” Syn croaked, but didn’t open his eyes.

Bishop released a long shuddering breath and Fighter placed a hand on Syn’s arm.

“How do you feel? Nauseous? Headache?”

“Headache.”

Bishop stood, lifting him in his arms with a move that was so powerful, Syn forgot to breathe for a moment. He had to curl his arms around Bishop’s neck and that was irritating, but he knew he’d wobble if he tried to stand and he wasn’t going to lose face that much in front of the man who, for whatever reason, didn’t like him at all.

Bishop walked right out the front door and placed him on the passenger seat inside the icy interior of a rusty van. He was buckled in before Bishop ran around to jump behind the wheel and cranked the heater on. Syn sat still, gripping the ripped and torn armrest.

The material of the headliner had worn so thin that the fabric hung down in places. The back of the van was littered with fast food wrappers and smelled like stale grease and gun oil. The van backfired when Bishop started the engine and Syn wondered how far they’d make it before the thing died. He kept his mouth shut, though, and gazed out the cracked windshield.

Did Bishop live in this?

A lump grew in his throat and he rubbed at his chest.

“Hang on, the urgent care is close.” Bishop shot him a crazed look that was filled with panic.

A shiver swept through Syn and it had nothing to do with the cold or the bump on his head.