The front door was open, the wind carrying the thrum of a bass guitar from a club way down on the Strip. The smell of stale cigars came off the men’s clothes, poisoning the scent of night-blooming jasmine.
She looked at Evan, and he watched the concern on her face migrate to fear. “I’m really sorry.”
Evan shrugged.
“Don’t you apologize to him,” Donnie said. “You look at me. Look at me, you fucking whore.”
Evan grimaced. So much for evenings that didn’t hold the promise of violence.
“Listen,” Jeanette-Marie said to Donnie, more cautiously now. “He’s just leaving. Let him go, and you and I, we’ll talk in the morning.”
Donnie frowned, considering. “Okay. You know what? You’re right.” He held up his hands, retreated to the front door. Paused. His jaw flexed a few times, the shiny, clean-shaven skin of his cheek rippling. “Fuck it,” he said, and flipped the door shut.
He swung back around to face them, his mouth shifting left, right.
Jeanette-Marie appealed to the others. “Eric? Jim? Rich—c’mon. This isn’t you guys. You know that. What are you gonna do? Beat up some guy you don’t even know? What’s that gonna accomplish?”
Evan flipped aside a corner of the duvet with a bare foot and found his jeans. He usually wore cargo pants but had upgraded to dark 501s as a concession to the Polo Lounge.
“Hey, motherfucker,” Donnie said. “Hey, you. You enjoy being in my bed? You enjoy being in my wife?”
Evan picked up his jeans and sat down on the bed. “You really want me to answer that?”
Donnie’s laugh turned into a sputter. He took a step forward, his friends fanning out behind him. “You’re an idiot. There are four of us.”
“I see that,” Evan said. “Need me to wait while you get more?”
They blinked at him.
The biggest of the quartet—Rich—stripped off his suit jacket. “We’ll be enough.”
Evan pulled on his jeans, one leg, then the other. One more irritated glance at the missed call with that 54 country code before he shoved the phone into his pocket. He finished dressing calmly, the men staring at him in disbelief. He buckled his belt and then held out his hands, palms up. “Okay,” he said. “Make an example out of me.”
Rich struck a boxing stance, shifting his weight from side to side. Donnie dropped his right foot back, which along with the watch on his left wrist signaled that he was right-handed. He gave a target glance at Evan’s chin, telegraphing where he intended to strike. The two beta males filled out the semicircle at the edge of Evan’s peripheral vision.
Jeanette-Marie’s bare feet hit the floor with a thump. “Donnie, you call this off right—”
The big guy led first as Evan knew he would, a haymaker, all force, no nuance. Evan slapped the fist aside with an open-hand deflection, placed his insole behind Rich’s heel, and jerked the guy’s loafer sharply two feet forward. Rich went airborne, landing hard on his shoulder blades. His lungs expelled a grunt, the wind knocked clean out of him.
Already Donnie was angling for the cheap shot, but Evan stepped aside and flicked his knuckles at the looming nose, shattering it neatly, a healthy spurt painting the front of Donnie’s designer shirt.
Jim came in halfhearted, his body already registering his fate, though his booze-addled brain was too slow to catch up. Evan smacked both sides of his head, boxing his ears and putting a concussive barb straight through his brain. As Jim’s hands rose protectively, Evan grabbed his dress shirt in the back and raked it up, a prison-yard move that trapped his arms. Then he kicked out Jim’s front leg, dumping him on the marble next to Rich, who was still sucking for oxygen.
By that time Donnie was reentering the fray, bellowing and swinging blindly. Evan grabbed his wrist in a bong sau/lop sau trap, sliding into an arm control. Locking Donnie’s elbow, he spun him around in a half turn and slammed his forehead into the farm table, bouncing him onto the floor next to the other two.
Then he turned to face the last man standing.
Frozen in place, Eric stared at him, panting, eyes rimmed with a good show of white. Giving Evan wide berth, he eased around the others and ran out, leaving the front door swinging in the breeze. Jim untangled himself from his shirt and hustled out after Eric in a limping run.
Rich lay on his back, as exposed as a flipped turtle. Evan offered his hand, and Rich flailed for it,