by E. M. Moore
When I walk back out with them, his eyes round, and he immediately grabs for them. “Where did you get these?”
His surprise and excitement makes me backtrack. “Gift from my guardians.”
His gaze shuts down. The marvel at my training equipment retreats, replaced by annoyance. “You’re still going with that?”
Technically, it’s not a lie. All the money I have is from my aunt and uncle, so despite the fact that I bought these myself, they’re still a gift from my aunt and uncle. I’m just lying about the aunt and uncle part. “I do have guardians,” I tell him. “Used to, anyway.”
Brawler sighs and shoves his hands into the pads. “You know no one here is going to tell on you for shit like that. For living alone?” He looks up to meet my gaze. “No one gives a shit about us. No one will be paying you any attention to notice you don’t have guardians living with you.”
“You did,” I counter.
“I’m different.”
He can say that again.
He holds up the pads, claps them together, then widens his stance, telling me he’s ready for me to start hitting them. We fall into an easy rhythm. This is one thing among many that we both have in common. We know how training works.
Brawler and I spend the next hour working out without communicating. We pass the focus mitts back and forth, and even though I tell him he can hit me harder, he’s giving me fifty percent strength when he hits while I’m wearing them.
I wish I could take Brawler to an actual gym. He would love it there. He would fall in easy with the type of guys that go there.
In another life… I almost sigh.
By the time we’re done, sweat is dripping off us. My tank top clings to my skin. “You can hit the shower first,” I say while taking the pads from him. I try to move around him to place the pads on the counter, but my foot catches on his sneaker, and I sprawl forward.
Strong arms move around me. He pulls me back into his embrace, arm moving around my middle to steady me. His fingers scorch my bare skin from where my tank top has pulled up, and I still. His breathing halts at the same time, but then a long exhale hits my shoulder and collarbone, hot breath teasing me. His palm presses into my stomach, moving me back. I’m hit with the hard surface of his abs, and a growing surface as his hips press into my thigh.
I bite my lip to keep from sighing or moaning.
“Fuck!” Brawler suddenly bursts. He steps away, then strides angrily to the bathroom.
The door slams behind him as my body flushes with heat and then cold. I shiver, standing in the middle of the living room while my arms fall lifelessly to my sides.
Shit. That was bad. I mean, fuck. It could’ve been so good, but I can’t trust anyone. Not Brawler. Definitely not his libido. This is a dangerous line we’re treading. Whether Brawler wants to admit it or not, he must be closer to the Heights Crew than he realizes. Otherwise, why would he run their fights? Why would he spend the night with me at Rocket’s orders if he didn’t have to?
I throw the pads up onto the counter and get a large glass of water before guzzling it down. Then, I get another. By the time I drink the second one, my heartbeat has returned to normal, and I don’t feel like I’m going to come out of my skin at any moment.
In the bathroom, the shower shuts off. My mind races to think about what Brawler’s going to be dressed in when he gets out of there. Does he have any clothes? Do I want him to? I mean, I’m pretty sure I don’t want him to, but there’s a difference between fantasy and reality. Reality is: nothing can happen between Brawler and me. Period.
After a few more minutes, the door opens and much to my disappointment, Brawler walks out wearing the usual kind of clothes he wears to school. I narrow my gaze at him. “Where’d you get those?”
“I ran home this morning to get a few things.”
“So, you’re moving in now?”
The look he turns on me lets me know the question I just asked is trouble. Instead of answering, he says, “Your turn.”
“I should hope so, it’s my shower.”
I walk into the steamy room, shutting the door behind me, and tearing my soaked clothes off. Everything is just as neat as I always leave it. It’s obvious he’s used my shampoo, conditioner, and even body wash, but he hasn’t left the bathroom a haphazard mess. Maybe all the shit people say about boys being messy is wrong. I haven’t had any experience with that. When I moved in with my aunt and uncle, I had my own bathroom. Hell, I practically had my own wing of the house. I could throw parties there and they would never know. This is my first real experience with a roommate, and it’s going good so far.
At the mention of my aunt and uncle, I remind myself that I need to text them to tell them I’m okay. I won’t be able to do it in front of Brawler though. Maybe I can do it when I head into my room to change. He won’t come in when I’m doing that. Not judging by his response to our compromising position only minutes ago.
I hurry, washing the sweat off me and letting the hot water massage my tight muscles left over from the workout. I usually love to spend extra time in the shower after a hard workout, but I don’t have the luxury this morning. Not only did I have to share my bathroom time with someone else, but now I need to make sure I text my aunt and uncle without getting caught.
As soon as I get out of the shower, I dry off and wrap my hair in the towel to help dry it. I move in front of the sink and look up at the mirror. I’m about to wipe the fog off it but stop.
No way.
No fucking way.
There, in the glass, are two words written out in a quick scrawl.
Fucking beautiful.
My throat starts to close. My mind tries to rationalize it away. There’s no way Brawler wrote that. The person who lived here before me must have written that on the mirror and I just hadn’t noticed it yet. A sweet message for his girlfriend or wife.
Not for me.
Definitely not for me.
Despite the steam in the room, my body shivers. I grab another towel and wrap up with it, warding off the cold even though I damn well know my body’s reactions have nothing to do with this room being cold. It’s toasty in here.
It’s me. It’s my body responding to the words Brawler left for me.
I allow myself a moment to appreciate it, taking in his quick, easy handwriting, and then swipe the message off, leaving my reflection in its wake. I see me. The girl who lost her parents. I see someone who’s broken inside in more ways than one. Hell, there’s even bruising on my face so my exterior matches my interior.
The last memory I have of someone calling me beautiful is from my mother. That’s what parents are supposed to say, right? They’re supposed to build their kids up. Make sure they feel loved and special. My aunt and uncle are adequate guardians, but they’re not parents.
I take a deep breath and let it out. The heat of my breath threatens to bring the message back, so I wipe the mirror down again. I need to forget that happened, and if Brawler was smart, he’d forget it happened, too.
I make quick work of getting ready for school and then sprint from the bathroom to my bedroom with a towel around myself. There, I lock the door behind me and pull out my stashed cell phone. There’s a message there waiting for me today. Hope you’re well. Thinking of you.
They don’t know exactly what I’m doing here. Even adequate guardians would’ve told me there’s no way they’d allow me to take down a gang boss for retribution. Though the message is only two short sentences—six short words—I cling the phone to my chest. It’s nice to have a whole other world that’s apart from this one. It gives me hope for what my future could be. I just know that unless I sever this tether that’s keeping me here, keeping me sad and angry, I’ll always be in two places. I need to cut this thread from my life now, so it won’t affect me later on.
Miss you both, I text back. Everything’s fine here.
It’s another short and sweet message, but it gets the point across. I hurry up and silence the phone
, putting it back in its hiding place before looking at my closet for something to wear. Once again, I’m caught between two worlds. If I wear the baggy clothes again, Rocket will put a stop to that. But how much do I want to show? Not skin-wise, obviously, but do I walk into school like I’m a part of the Heights Crew now?
Nerves roll through me because I have no idea how today is going to go down. Oscar and Brawler seemed to think that word would’ve gotten out that I’m Rocket’s girl already. Hell, there were a shitton of kids from school there yesterday. Maybe they’ve passed along the gossip.
I pick out a pair of well-worn jeans and an old band t-shirt. Middle ground works best. It’s not showing off everything I have, but it looks badass. I figure after the showing I gave last night, this might help with that persona. I sit on my bed and apply a little makeup to even out the bruises marring my skin, and then run my fingers through my hair. A quick check of the alarm clock tells me it’s about time to head to school, so I unlock my bedroom door and step out.
Brawler turns, a plate of toast in his hands. There’s nothing about him that says he left me that message. In fact, his face is hard, stoic. He holds up the plate to me, an offer, and I take it. He places two more slices in the toaster while I eat.
We eat in silence, but I can’t help but wonder if he’s asking himself if I saw his message or not. Or if he’s wondering if I responded, or what I think about it in general.
I think no one’s called me beautiful in a long ass time. I think I love his message.
I’ll never tell him though. And as far as I can tell, he’s not going to speak of it either.
12
The walk to school is uneventful, but as soon as we step onto school property, it’s a different story. People are side eyeing me, sizing me up. The guys are smirking like they know something I don’t. The girls look at me like they could pounce, but they don’t have the lady balls. At least not now that I’m attached to the Heights Crew.
Is a member of the Crew seriously the best way out of this place? I’m pretty sure that would get them stuck here forever, not the other way around.
“Don’t worry about them,” Brawler says. “They won’t dare touch you.”
“So, you noticed, too, huh?”
“It’s hard not to.”
We pass through security easier than I have yet. The uniformed security guy doesn’t even look into my bag.
I pick it up from the table and hike it up my shoulder. “I just don’t understand why.”
Brawler looks over at me for the first time since training this morning. “To them, the Heights Crew is a way out.”
“But they’re just trading one bad scenario for another.”
His eyes turn to slits as he tries to make me out. “Aren’t you doing the same, Princess? You have to stay here,” he challenges me, throwing in my face the fact that I won’t leave. “Why are you doing it?”
I lift my chin. Stupid, stupid me. I’m getting way too comfortable around him. “None of your damn business.”
He shakes his head. “Well, whether you admit it or not, girls only get involved in the Heights Crew for a few reasons. Either you’re stupid enough to fall for someone already involved, you’re looking for a way out of your own shitty life, or you’re doing it for protection. So, which one are you?”
He’s wrong. There is another reason. One he’ll find out eventually, but I’ll never be able to tell him “I told you so” because I’ll be long gone by the time they realize I’m the one who put a bullet between Big Daddy K’s eyes.
I don’t answer him, and he doesn’t push me for one either. He just lets the question linger until I walk toward my first period class.
School flies by. Everyone gives me a wide berth physically even though I feel like I’m under a microscope for most of it, which does nothing for my fight-induced headache. Everyone wants to gape at who’s caught Rocket’s eye, but when I swear someone’s looking at me and turn to tell them to fuck off, they’re already looking away.
The girls are the worst. The jealousy wafting off most of them is thick and heady. It makes my heart ache. When you think you only have a couple options in this life and one of the better ones was just taken, envy and anger are natural. If they only knew what I have planned though. I won’t be around forever, and they can have Rocket when I’m gone. I couldn’t care less.
Either Oscar or Brawler stays with me throughout the day. They walk or sit through each class with me whether they’re supposed to be in the class or not. Not one teacher even looks at them twice, and that’s by design too. They’re not interfering with Crew business.
At the end of the day, I don’t even bother bringing books with me. The school really is a joke. I’m not sure what I’m even being graded on yet, and I sure as fuck know my grades won’t matter in the long run because I don’t know when I’ll get my opportunity with Big Daddy K. If it’s sooner rather than later, I plan on disappearing from this place anyway. No need to stress about the work I leave behind. Hell, no need to stress anyway. Kyla Samson is made up. She’s no one. I could fail and it won’t even go on my permanent record.
Brawler walks me out the front of the school, past the eyes of the lingering security detail, and right up to a black car that looks the same as the one who dropped us off at the apartment last night. Everyone who passes it, looks without looking. They’re acutely aware of what’s going on, but they don’t show it. They go on with their business, but I know each one of them has filed this moment in their memory banks for later. Perhaps to talk about with a few trusted friends.
Rocket emerges from the back. He’s all smiles for me. “Hello, love.”
Brawler stiffens, and I don’t know if I’m reacting to him or my own free will, but I follow. My body locks up at the easy way Rocket addresses me. I try to shake it off, but it’s harder than I imagined it would be. It’s crazy how easy I molded to Brawler, but with Rocket, I can’t even pretend.
I have to though.
“Hi,” I say nervously. That part isn’t even faked.
Rocket leans over, his lips grazing my cheek. He breathes in deep, and instead of it being sexy, it reminds me of a predator sniffing out its prey. Or worse, marking his territory.
He takes my hand and pulls me behind him into the car. Before the door shuts, I take one last look back. Brawler’s turning away. Suddenly, I’m freaked out that I’m alone with Rocket, the son of the guy I’ve grown up loathing. Who I’ve imagined killing time and time again. So much so that it’s almost like a lullaby in my head, lulling me to sleep. The act promises me better days, tranquil nights.
Yes, it’s sick that a murder could make me feel better. But it’s also true.
Rocket pulls me into his side. “I know it’s weird,” he says. “In time, you’ll get used to me. I’ll make sure of it. You’ve probably heard stories, and even though they’re all most likely true, I would never hurt you.”
I swallow. His words are supposed to be sweet—at least in his eyes—but they fall far short of hitting that emotion for me. “Sorry,” I say, blinking up at him. “I guess we can start by getting to know one another first.”
His lips pull back. “Excellent idea. Your name is Kyla Samson. You’re a senior at Rawley Heights. You just moved here from the northern most part of the state…” Rocket goes on and on, regurgitating every last piece of my “past” that I compiled. It cost a pretty penny to make up a whole person, and I’m glad I paid as much attention to it as I did. “Your parents are gone. You have new guardians now, but they leave you alone. You don’t fight like any other person I’ve ever seen. Like a beautiful warrior,” he says, his voice soft as he trails a finger down my cheek.
I smile at him. “You’ve done your research.”
“It comes with the territory,” he says.
I turn into him, propping my knee up on the seat so I can face him. “But none of that really matters, does it? All the facts about where I grew up and what happened to my parents?” My stomach twists jus
t saying that. It’s the most important thing that ever happened to me. “That’s not really how you get to know a person.”
He tilts his head to the side as he appraises me, gaze pausing over the bruising my makeup can’t quite cover. “I guess you’re right.”
“But, let me hear about you. So far, all I know is that you’re called Johnny Rocket. That people fear you for your role in the toughest gang around. Fuck, I don’t even know your last name.”
He threads his fingers through mine. “I want you to call me Johnny. Rocket’s for those who need a reminder of how powerful I can be.”
My heart thumps, another reminder that I’m too close to the fire.
He plays with my fingers as the car pulls out of the parking lot. Apprehension builds in my gut. I don’t even know where we’re going, and the only people who know where I am wouldn’t narc on the Heights Crew if they tried selling their own sister as a sex slave.
Johnny’s quiet for a while, and I realize I’m going to be the one asking questions. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Where do you live?”
“You’ll see it eventually.”
“Do you fight?” I ask, hoping he’ll expand on at least one of the questions I ask him. This isn’t helping me get to know him at all.
“Only when I have to.”
He gets closer and closer. He traces his lips up my neck, stopping just under my ear. “I kind of want to piss all over my father’s rules right now.”
“Rules?” I ask, mouth working. I can’t help but put my hands on him. He’s so close. His presence is heavy. My fingers slide around his forearms, and suddenly I don’t know if I’m trying to keep him away or pull him close.
Johnny growls and sits back. “He’s decided you’re my prize for when I move up beside him.” He kicks the seats in front of us lightly.