by Tijan
He huffed, easing backward. “I just fart when I drink too much and have too many hot dogs. It’s not all the time.”
“That’s what you got out of that? Really?”
Cross chuckled, easing me back around. “Simmer. We’ll get more coffee after this.”
“...yep. She’s here.” Pause. “Nope. She’s about to kill Zellman. I don’t know. I think he breathed on her.” He held the phone out, a smirk on his face. “Your brother wants to talk to you. He ain’t too happy.”
I took the phone, raising my eyebrows. “Really? You don’t say.”
He laughed, settling in his seat. “He’s the godfather. He calls; we answer. That’s how it works.” He shrugged. “Besides, I endeared him to us since you didn’t ignore his call. You’re welcome.”
My fist was working again, itching to go in Jordan’s direction now.
Cross sighed, taking the phone from me. “Hey, Channing.” A beat. “Yeah. It was a crew campout last night. We’re good, just scoping someone out right now, then heading to school.” Pause. A longer pause. “Yeah. She’s, uh…she’s in a fighting mood today. Maybe later?” He nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Dinner sounds good. Bye.” He hung up, handing the phone over, and without looking at me, he said, “You’re welcome. We’re having dinner with your brother.” He slid a cocky smirk to me. “Payback for next Sunday night.”
I pocketed the phone. “If you don’t want to go, don’t. I said I’d go as Taz’s friend.”
He shook his head, focusing on the school across the road. “My sister has you whipped.”
I was friend-whipped.
I considered it, and shrugged. I think I was.
“Is that him?” Zellman shoved his head through the window, again narrowly missing mine.
“Z!” I growled.
“Wait.” Cross grabbed my wrist automatically, but leaned forward. “I think it might be.”
All the fight left me, and I looked, seeing a guy with an athletic build getting out of a—
“Jesus!” came from the window.
“Zellman!” I yelled.
“That’s a Mercedes G Wagon. Dude.” He slapped my shoulder in excitement, his eyes wide. “That’s new this year. Holy fuck.”
Jordan whistled. “Your half-brother’s a rich prick.”
Cross grunted, folding his arms over his chest. “What do you expect? He goes to the Academy, and you heard that lady—his mom’s worth fifteen mil. Not surprised.”
The truck’s body was white with a black rim and a black top, and while it did look pretty, my eyes were on Cross. For once, he wasn’t aware of my attention. He was always aware of me, but this time, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from his brother. He’d gone silent and still, his jaw clenching a tiny bit, and I felt the tension in his body.
“You don’t know if your dad knew about him all this time?” Jordan was watching Cross as well.
“I don’t know. Only reason I know about him is because I heard my parents arguing one night. Taz was at Race’s. I slipped in to grab some things before heading to Bren’s, and I heard ’em. They were so loud. I could’ve rang the doorbell, and they wouldn’t have heard me. I was going to ignore it. They’d been fighting all year, but after I grabbed my shit and was heading out, he dropped the bomb. ‘I have another kid.’ His exact words. My mom gasped, then started sobbing, and he stormed out. I left after that—didn’t feel like staying to comfort her. Either of them.”
“Where’d you see the picture then?”
“My dad’s office.” Cross broke, a sly grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I went in and snooped another night. I took a whole folder he had on him.” His eyes flicked up. “Can you imagine? Having an actual folder on your kid? Like he was a patient or a client or something.” That sly grin turned to a hard smirk. “His name is Blaise.”
“DeVroe. That’s what that lady said your dad’s new woman’s last name is. Blaise DeVroe.”
Z shook his head. “Even his name sounds like money.”
They were all watching this kid, but I was still watching Cross. His eyes followed the kid as he walked across the parking lot, all the way inside.
It was almost eight. Fallen Crest Academy started earlier than the other schools. That gave us thirty minutes to get to Roussou and stroll right into our own classrooms.
“Well.” Jordan sat up. “There he was. We saw him, if that was him.”
“That was him.” Cross hadn’t moved, his jaw still clenching. “He looks just like my dad at this age.”
We all fell silent.
Cross’ hand had formed a fist, resting on his knee.
Zellman bounced when he was agitated. Cross got still, super still, when he wanted to tear someone’s head off.
“Oh, fuck.”
I was about to suggest we head out when Zellman swore, surging to his feet in the back of Jordan’s truck. That was all the warning we got. He pounded his fists on the top of the cab as Jordan jerked forward, swearing too.
Everything stopped as we saw Zeke and a whole group of his friends heading for us. They were pointing, and there was no mistake what they intended.
“Not this time, assholes,” Jordan breathed as he pocketed his keys. “It ain’t twelve on one, and I ain’t maced.” He looked over at us. “Let’s go.”
Zellman was already yelling, “You want some of us, huh? Odds are more even this time, fuckers.”
Cross didn’t say a word. He was out of the truck in a flash.
I stopped, just for a second, thumbing off a text before shoving my phone back in my pocket. Then I scrambled, because we weren’t waiting this time.
Zeke paused as he drew near, like he wanted to have words first.
Not us. Not this time. Not after Jordan.
Zellman jumped down from the cab, howling, “Let’s do this!”
Jordan stalked ahead of us. Zeke was focused on him, and I could see his snarl forming in slow motion. He was totally and completely captivated by Jordan, his friends too. They were huffing and puffing up their chests, pounding their fists together in front of them.
Cross was the one no one saw coming.
He came at them, running behind Jordan and Zellman. Then he weaved around, cutting in.
I darted to the side as he veered the other way.
Zeke never saw him.
Cross was on him, nailing him with a right-cross, using his entire body behind the hit. He was shorter than Zeke, more leanly muscled.
Time seemed to stop, and we all watched together.
Zeke’s eyes flared wide, shock and fear flashing, and then his head snapped to the left from the hit, and he couldn’t react. His body was going, going, falling, and bam. He was down, and he was out.
Cross had knocked him out with one punch, and as everyone was watching Zeke, Cross went on to the next guy, using his momentum.
The second guy had a split second’s warning to step back, so Cross’ fist didn’t hit him in the face, but instead got him smack in the neck. The guy doubled over, gasping.
Cross went down—it was inevitable after the way he’d used his body for both those hits. But no one had hit him or shoved him. He was just unable to fight gravity. But after a moment he scrambled to his feet. Jordan came in behind him, catching the second guy with a second hit, and that guy fell right next to Zeke.
Then it was on.
We all waded in, because this was our crew. Jordan was one of us.
As we fought—hitting, ducking, taking hits—a part of me basked in this. That old Bren, the one locked away in a cage inside of me, she was the one controlling me now.
She was the one smiling as blood trickled from a cut on my face. She was the one finally breathing, and she was the one basking because underneath the roughness of fighting, there’s something beautiful about violence.
The ugliness of it, the harshness of it, the realness of it.
It’s simple.
With violence, someone gets hurt. It’s going to happen. You’re on one side or t
he other. There’s no in-between, because that’s the bottom line for violence. Your mind is allowed to shut off. Your body takes over. And your body knows to protect its own.
This moment, this day, this morning, we chose.
They’d gotten one of ours before, but not today. Not now. Now was our time.
This was our retribution.
You either hurt or you get hurt. We chose to hurt first.
An air horn sounded, ripping through the air.
Everyone stopped.
The fight had just seemed to start, but that wasn’t the truth. As soon as it began, half their guys ran off, and an audience surged forward.
Someone had yelled, “FIGHT!” So when that horn blasted, I wasn’t shocked to see an audience, or the phones pointed at us.
What surprised me was who had the air horn.
Cross’ half-brother.
And now I was getting a better view of him.
He was…shit. Cross was right.
I straightened from where I had jumped back to avoid an arm. Cross stopped too, a guttural sound coming from his throat.
“Bren,” he said quietly, moving the guy he was holding in front of me to block me from the phones. “Run.”
Jordan heard him too, and it clicked for both of us. He shoved a ball cap down over my face.
I was on probation. It wasn’t the first fight I’d participated in with that status, but this one was more televised. I was in trouble, a lot of fucking trouble.
“Bren.” Another whispered order from Cross. “Go. Get to Roussou so you have an alibi.”
It was a little late for that, but I whispered back, “I’m covered. I sent a text before we started.”
Cross and Jordan both looked at me, eyebrows pinched.
His brother came wading through the crowd.
“EVERYONE, GET THE FUCK BACK!” he yelled. “And delete those fucking videos! We’re not fucking narcs!”
To his credit, a lot of the students seemed to move to mess with their phones. A couple showed him their screens. A few hesitated, and he seemed to sense who they were, zoning in on them. Pointing the horn at them, he barked, “If I see one of those online, I will find out who put it up, and trust me, I will destroy you. DELETE THE VIDEOS! NOW!”
He was seething, his chest rising up and down, and when a few didn’t run fast enough, he lunged at them. Sweeping the horn out and pressing the button again, he yelled, “Get the fuck in school! Now!”
“Yeah, Blaise.”
Another hurried off, running for the door. “Sorry, Blaise. Sorry, man.”
A few of Zeke’s guys were still there, and the one Cross was holding jerked away. Cross shoved him for good measure. Zellman was interlocked with another guy, and they pushed at each other to get away. Jordan stepped in front of me, Cross closing in on the other side as a shield.
Blaise scanned the ground. Three guys had been knocked out, and another two were trying to stand up, bleeding from their faces.
Blaise shook his head. “Are you fucking serious? This shit?” Then he swung his gaze around, finding Jordan. “You come over here to start a fight with us? You know who we are? HUH?”
I went ramrod straight. This guy…
Cross erupted with his own savage growl and took two quick steps to push into his space. He got right in his face. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you not know who we are?”
Blaise got a good look at Cross and stumbled backward a step.
Cross was right with him, keeping pace. He was furious. “You know who I am? You know my name?”
Holy. Fuck.
My jaw was on the ground, and I let out a breath to calm my sudden nerves.
Jordan reached back, his hand finding my shoulder. He spoke quietly, “We got him. Don’t worry.”
“Get gone.” Zellman kicked at the air, near one of the guys still on his knees. He flung a hand out. “Take your pals and don’t fuck with us again.”
He was scanning the rest of the guys, and I knew who he was looking for: Sunday’s baby daddy. I didn’t know who to be more worried about, Zellman or Cross.
Jordan squeezed my shoulder. “I got Z. You take Cross.”
Decision made. I stepped forward, pulling the ball cap even lower.
At first glance, Blaise DeVroe was another golden boy. Classic handsome features, high cheekbones, square jawline. Blaise’s face was leaner than Cross’. His nose was a tiny bit bigger, and he had a rounder forehead. His hair was a little lighter than Cross’ but the undertones were caramel brown. Cross’ hair was just lighter from the sun. Cross was taller, but Blaise had broader and rounder shoulders. Cross was leaner than Blaise.
The eyes were different.
Cross had tawny hazel eyes, which made everyone take a second, third, and sometimes fourth look. Girls swooned for those eyes. Blaise had dark almond eyes, almost black.
But damn. Cross’ dad had some strong genes, that’s for sure.
“No, buddy.” Blaise got ahold of himself, his mouth snapping shut, and his eyes flashed. He stepped right back at Cross, angling his head to try to look down on Cross. “I don’t know you, actually. I’m new this year.”
“You don’t act like you’re new. You act like you have weight to throw around here.”
Blaise grunted. He was preparing for a fight, but everyone knew that had passed. “I’m here to help out my best friend.”
“Your best friend?” Cross’ eyes were cold, his tone even chillier. “There ain’t no best friends here. Walk, pal. Walk back into that school.”
“Not without Zeke.”
“The fuck?” Jordan and Zellman moved to my side.
“Allen is your best friend?” Jordan asked.
Zellman scratched behind his ear. “This is the guy, right? Cross?”
Cross surveyed everything and made a decision. He took a step back, clearing the way, his head cocked to the side.
“Yeah, this is the guy,” he said tightly. “You heard him. Let him help his best friend out of here.” He arched an eyebrow, silently issuing a challenge to his half-brother. “Let’s let him get his buddy. We got places to be anyway.”
One of the unconscious guys was coming around. His eyes opened with a groan, and he pushed himself to a sitting position.
Blaise motioned to him. His eyes never left Cross as he walked over to Zeke. “Can you give me a hand, Darby?”
The guy was still trying to clear his head. “Yeah. Uh… Hold on.” He kept blinking. “What happened?”
“You knocked one of ours down,” Zellman told him. “We came back twice as hard.”
Jordan tapped his shoulder. “Let’s go, Z.”
Still eyeing them, his top lip curled up in disdain, Z began walking away backward. “Yeah.” He flipped a finger in the air. “Until next time.”
Cross tore his gaze away from his brother, his hand catching mine. He turned and began walking us to Jordan’s truck. Then it was like a spell lifted, and reality rushed at us. We’d just fought Fallen Crest Academy students, near their campus. They were sure to have security cameras, and though we were across the street, they could’ve captured everything.
We needed to jet. Now!
“Come on!” Jordan pounded the top of his truck, the engine revving, and his window down. Zellman had jumped in the back, still glaring at the guys.
Cross jumped in behind him, and I lunged for the front seat. Jordan took off, his wheels spinning up dirt even before I shut my door. Then we were off, and I had no doubt we’d just put another problem on our pile to tackle, but I couldn’t ignore the thrill inside of me.
I felt alive.
It shouldn’t be like that, but I couldn’t deny it.
I turned, making eye contact with Cross, and he read my need. He nodded, splaying his hand on the window between us. I moved, fitting mine against his on the other side of the glass. I figured I’d tell them once we got to school that I’d already texted ahead. Race was going to cover for us, putting the word out that we were at sc
hool if people started asking. The attendance office might show we were late, but word in the hallways would be that we were right on time.
It’d have to do if anyone questioned us.
Just as we turned the corner, I saw three school officials heading out across the lot.
We got to school five minutes after the last bell rang to start the day.
Separating at the bathroom, I rushed in and did a quick clean, but I still smelled like booze, campfire, cold sweat, and blood. Plus, dirt. I groaned, washing my face and pulling my hair up into a braid. I couldn’t do much else except slip on a different sweatshirt. That wouldn’t disguise the smell, but I had deodorant in my locker, and Taz had some body spray.
When I came out, Cross was just finishing at his locker. He stopped, book in hand, and leaned back against it. He gave me a cocky smirk as he folded his arms over his chest.
“Look at you,” I almost cooed.
He laughed, but that smirk just grew. I opened my locker, and he waited for me to rifle through, get what I needed, and step back.
Spying the new sweatshirt in my hand, he asked, “What are you doing?”
“I stink.”
I pulled the sleeves back through so they went the right way.
“So?” He leaned over, sniffing me. “And you don’t.”
I did. “It doesn’t matter. Girls don’t like to smell.”
“Uh, girls usually don’t smell. They think they do, but they don’t.”
I wasn’t going to have a gender debate with him about my olfactory senses. Nodding at Taz’s locker, I asked, “Can you open it? Grab her body spray? I know she has some in there.”
As he did, I used my deodorant and put my sweatshirt on. I zipped it up, pulled off my other shirt, and tossed it in my locker.
Cross caught it just as it was going in. “What are you doing?” He handed over the spray, still eyeing me like I’d lost my head.
“That shirt smells like campfire. My hair reeks. I’ll make do with this thing.”