But more to the point, two college-aged fuck-twits who’d been doing illegal drugs weren’t going to want to report shit to the police.

So no reason not to finish this.

Jim tightened his hold on that wrist, secured another grabber on the upper arm, and yanked the kid back so he could whisper in his ear. “I want you to take a deep breath. Come on, now…concentrate. Calm down and take a deep breath for me. That’s it…”

Jim squeezed and squeezed some more until pain cut off any struggle. And when there was plenty of compliance with the even breathing, he dislocated that arm right from its shoulder socket with a quick twist. The resulting scream was loud, but the music from the dance floor drowned out the echo. Which was why, all things considered, clubs were not a bad place for throw-downs.

As the kid sagged onto the floor, Jim knelt in front of him. “I hate hospitals. Just out of one myself. You know what they’re going to do to someone with your kind of injury? They’re going to put the arm back where it belongs. Here, let me show you.”

Jim took the flopping limb and didn’t bother telling the guy to breathe deep. He just applied the appropriate pressure so that the bone popped back into its home. No screaming this time—the SOB just passed out cold.

In the wake of his stab at being an ortho doc, Jim glanced up to see how things were going with the other half of the altercations—and got an eyeball full of Vin working his opponent’s liver like it was bread dough. College Boy was wilting badly and looking royally licked, his hands up not to throw punches, but to ward them off…and his knees knocking together like his balance was going fast.

Which would have been great except for the fact they had trouble.

At the end of the hall, they were attracting attention, a clubgoer peering down the corridor.

The lights were dim, but not that dim.

They had to clear the fuck out.

“Vin, we got to go,” Jim hissed.

The newsflash didn’t register, and that wasn’t a surprise, given the brutal focus Vin was bringing to his fight. Shit, screw the peanut gallery; if he was allowed to keep this up, he was going to kill the guy. Or at least turn the fool into a linebacker-size vegetable.

Jim stood up, prepared to intervene with more than words.

CHAPTER
13

Vin was having a fucking ball.

It had been years since he’d thrown punches at more than a bag of sand in the gym, and he’d forgotten how good it felt to physically express his opinion of an asshole—directly in the guy’s face. Man, it all came back, the stance, the power, the focus.

He still had it. He could still fight.