The air in the café thickened like soup left too long on a stove. The kind of silence that screams.
Creed sat back in his chair, his expression unreadable, cool as ever, like he'd just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.
Meanwhile, everyone else at the table had tensed up, their eyes fixed on the group of hulking, sweaty men that had just stomped their way into their peaceful gathering like a bunch of oversized bullies straight out of a cartoon.
The leader of the group; the fat, eight-foot-tall man with a pink mohawk and the fashion sense of a drunken rooster stood proudly with both his fat arms on the table, his large fingers splayed out like squashed sausages.
Behind him stood his backup dancers: five equally massive men, each looking like they ate protein powder for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with a side of steroids.
One of them, who wore a tight shirt that read "Woke up Sexy Again" suddenly swaggered toward Mia's side of the table.
