by Emilia Finn
Jackson laughs.
“No,” Snapper continues. “I was traveling for work. One weekend a month, I can’t make it to Piper’s Lane. Rumor has it that I missed the best weekend of them all.” He leans a little closer. “Is it true you decked Bryan Kincaid?”
Now Jackson growls and pulls me closer.
“I… had words with him.” I try to pull away from the possessive arm slung over my shoulder, but hide it by turning to him to ask, “Do you think we should check in?”
“Yeah.”
Refusing to release me, he reminds me of the talk he gave me on our way out here. You have to stay with me, Maddi. It’s for your own safety. You can’t wander around alone, because the men out there think any unaccompanied female is free game. He’s taking his protective role seriously, and in the process, he gets the added bonus of letting everyone think we’re a couple.
Successful, I suppose, considering the number of times Bryan sneered the word boyfriend.
“I’ll circle back around to you, Snap. Come on.” He tugs me away from the small crowd that was gathering, and leads me toward the woman I met last week. Manda.
And while we walk, I glance around in search of that shadow. That dangerous man, the unspoken threat.
Except… I’m not scared.
“Maddi?”
“Yeah?” I jerk my head back around to look up at Jackson. “What’s up?”
“You looking for someone?”
“Yeah. Uh… is Jenna coming tonight?”
“Nah.” He takes someone’s hand as we pass… I have no clue who, because everyone seems to be reaching for him. “Jen’s not allowed out here anymore. Not for as long as assholes like Kincaid live.”
“Live?” My brows shoot up high. “Wow, that’s intense. You gonna hire an assassin to have him taken out?”
He actually chortles. “If I was, I wouldn’t announce it so people could hear me.”
When my heart lurches, he looks down and snickers. “Kidding, Maddi. It was just a joke.” Lifting my hat back, he presses a long, juicy, loud kiss to the center of my forehead. And for the world’s longest minute while his lips are in contact with my skin, my eyes stop on a pair of dark brown orbs.
Bryan stands ten or so feet away, amid a crowd that he barely notices. They want his attention, they want him to smile for them and acknowledge their existence, but he merely slides his hands into his pockets, rocks on his heels, and watches me with a damn smirk.
He wears dark jeans again tonight, a cream shirt with a motorbike on the front. His hair is tidier this week, but I suspect that’s because he came out knowing he wouldn’t be wearing a hat. His square jaw is so pronounced, so sharp, that it shadows his neck, and emphasizes a five o’clock shadow.
I bet his chin is spiky. I bet it’s like sandpaper, and damn if I don’t angle my head in such a way that Jackson’s chin scrapes over my skin just so I can compare.
Baby-bottom smooth.
Bryan’s smirk turns to a full-blown grin, telling me that he knows what I just did. Why I did it. And what’s running through my brain as Jackson steps back and fixes my hat.
Oh god, it’s Bryan’s hat, and Jackson doesn’t even know.
Bryan stands to my right, sort of at two o’clock, so he’s in Jackson’s blind spot.
“I was kidding, Maddi.”
I can’t take my eyes from the man who completely ignores everyone that tries to speak to him.
“Maddi?” I gasp when fingers come below my chin and draw my eyes around. “Did I scare you?”
“Huh?” I swallow to lubricate my bone-dry throat. “What?”
“The assassin thing. I was only kidding.”
“Oh…” I let out a squeaking, giggling laugh. “I know. Sorry, I’m just…” I wave him off. “Tired from work.”
“Assassins aren’t easy to come by,” he jokes. “It’s not like I could walk into a random business in town and find a gun for hire.”
“Ha…”
No longer willing to entertain him, I pull away. “I’m done discussing guns and killing people. I’m gonna…” I cast a glance back to the space Bryan was standing a moment ago.
It’s empty.
“Uh…”
“Maddi?”
“Pee,” I blurt out. I meet his eyes. “I have to pee.”
“Oh. Uh… okay. If you can wait a couple minutes for me to sign in with Manda, I can walk you over and stand guard.”
“No, it’s okay.” I pull out of his hold and pat my bag close. “It’s fine. There are spotlights and stuff over there. I’ll be fine.”
“Maddi.” He steps in my direction. A single step to show his concern. Except I doubt it has anything to do with my safety, and everything to do with his self-proclaimed arch nemesis. “Just give me a minute.”
I shake my head. “I’m busting, so I’ll head over that way. You can come over when you’re done here.”
“But I’ll probably be ten minutes or so. That’s too long.”
I shrug. “So then I’ll be back before you’re even done. It’s fine, Jackson. Relax. And get back in line. That dude just cut in front of you.”
He spins with a growl, and shoves the line-cutter to the side with such force that I feel bad for him. He did cut line – sort of – but only because Jackson was half in, half out.
While he’s distracted with the scuffle he just started, I turn on my heels – which are actually sneakers tonight – and move toward the massive brick structure that is, by and large, the only building in a twenty-mile radius.
It’s like, somewhere in the last couple decades, the women got sick of peeing in the shadows. They got sick of the dirt being so dry that their pee bounced back up and marked their shoes. So someone built something that I’m certain never received engineering approval.
Single layer bricks, a little wonky, and as I walk toward it, I vow to never pee when it’s windy. Someday, someone will die while pooping. And that’s not how I want to go down.
I make my way toward the building, and though I keep my eyes peeled for anyone that might like to mess with “Jackson’s girl”, I make it to the block without having to stop even once. My bag remains secure over my shoulder, the strap nestled comfortably between my breasts. The compartment is zippered closed, its contents safe, as I rush into the single unoccupied toilet stall, and pass women trying to check their makeup without a real mirror.
Someone installed steel cutoffs to the wall. Shiny steel, reflective steel, but still, they’re not mirrors, and applying makeup using them as an aid is out of the question.
I wanted to get away from Jackson and the crowd because I needed space. Because Bryan’s appearing and vanishing act wigged me out. But I really do need to pee too, so I lock the flimsy door, and drop my pants.
The noise outside the stall is loud. Women giggling. Men catcalling. Cars roaring. The women drink and either bitch or build each other up with sentiments like, “You’re the hottest chick here tonight, Lara. And if he can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve you!”
Track bathrooms are much the same as bathrooms in a club, I suppose. Loud noise, drunk women, and prowling men. It’s a universal truth that I have zero inclination to join in.
None of the drivers are allowed to drink. It’s a hard rule, apparently. Which is great and all, except that rule doesn’t apply to spectators. Which means this place is filled to the brim each weekend with drunk women and sober men. It would be a fine combination, of course, if all men were honorable. But alas… my cynical side insists many are not.
Finishing up, I wipe, pull up my jeans, fix the button, and try my damnedest not to touch anything.
It’s like I can feel the germs on me. The filth of thousands of other people’s uncleanliness. So I touch only what I must, I elbow the door open, move to the filthy sink, and do my best with the bottle of antibacterial soap and a cold tap.
I wash up so thoroughly that the other people in here begin to stare, then I shut the tap off and go in search of the ti
ny bottle of sanitizer I tucked into my bag before I left the house tonight. I learned last weekend that the bathroom was a cesspool of ick, so I planned ahead.
When I’m done, I slide the tiny bottle back into my bag, only to zip it up with a last glance at what’s inside.
Lara and some other chick whose name I didn’t catch continue to discuss “Derek’s” intentions with “that other chick” as I step out of the brightly lit space.
From concrete, to dirt, to nothing, my feet come off the ground with a fast sweep. My breath is knocked from my lungs, like I’ve accidentally stepped onto a football field, and the two-hundred-pound defensive tackle dude has mistaken me for the other team.
A shoulder digs into my stomach as I’m thrown upward, then my back slams to the outside of the toilet block, but now I’m in the dark. I’m in the space we’re told not to go.
“Madilyn.”
I still. My stomach threatens to revolt, and my heart pounds so heavily that I worry it might completely stop. My hat sits askew – his hat – but even in the dark, his eyes bore into mine.
He pins me to the wall, his chest pressed to mine, his hips pressed to mine. His leg is between mine so I’m essentially straddling him, but he doesn’t lift his leg. He doesn’t touch what he’s not supposed to touch.
His nose is just inches from mine, and his breath – minty – plays over my lips. “You didn’t return my fuckin’ hat,” he seethes. “Your week is up, and I have no hat.”
With shaking hands, I reach up, but he stops me. Wraps his broad hand around my wrist like a cuff, then slams my arm back against the brick until the coarse exterior bites into my skin.
“Not that one,” he growls. “You know which one I want. I told you I wanted it, and I’m reasonably confident I used my manners.”
“You didn’t.” I lick my lips, not to be seductive, but to moisten them. And yet, when his eyes flip down, my stomach warms. “I’m not sure you possess manners. You’re rude, obstinate, obnoxious, and grating.”
“Such pretty words.” He comes closer. Closer. Closer until the tip of his nose touches mine. “Fancy words for a fancy girl.”
I shrug. Or at least, I try to shrug. “I went to college.”
He snorts. “And I didn’t. You’re so fancy, Madilyn. Is that what you want? To be made to feel superior? Does your soul thrive, knowing that you’re too good for everyone around you? Is that why you date Fuckface? Because his family has money?”
“I date no one for their money, I have my own. And despite what you think you know about me, I know how to live on canned food and rationing portions. Despite my fancy words, I’m just a person. Just like you. Just like everyone else.”
He scoffs. “You’re nothing like me. You’re a spoiled fucking brat that doesn’t know when to sit your ass down and shut the hell up.” He presses harder against me. So hard that my lungs struggle to fill. “Where’s my hat?”
“Ya know, my family tried to train me to sit down and shut up too.” I push back against him. It achieves nothing, but the fact I can do anything right now, while this man touches me from toes to head, means something to me. “They want pretty little women who know their place in the world. They want us to be knowledgeable on all things current; fashion, gossip, politics, and business. Because if, god forbid, we’re asked to speak, we’re not allowed to sound stupid. But the general consensus is that we shouldn’t speak.” I try to shove him back. “It’s the way it is in my world.”
“Yeah? In my world, the women won’t shut the fuck up. They’re current too; on sass, on family gossip, on whatever bullshit makes them laugh. Seems you’d fit right in. Now, where’s my fucking hat?”
“Who was that girl last week?”
He scowls. “What girl? I went home alone last week. I had to ice my balls, because this stuck-up bitch that literally didn’t know me, knocked them into my throat.”
I laugh. It’s definitely not a ha-ha laugh, but something more. Something dangerous.
“That’s twice in one week I’ve been called a bitch,” I hiss. “Soon I’m going to snap, and I’m warning you, you don’t wanna be the dude that catches two decades of attitude after so much repression. Who was the little girl?”
Finally, I get something other than rage. His eyes change. His entire demeanor changes. “What?”
“The little girl in your gym. Brown hair, brown eyes, rainbow skirt. She was clutching your hand when you walked into my meeting.”
“She’s none of your fuckin’ business,” he growls. And back is the rage. “Absolutely none of your business. If you think she’s your next move, your next contact to fuck with me, then you’re dangerously mistaken.”
“Who do you think I am, Bryan?” I explode under his hands, find some space between us as I blow. “What have I ever done to you to deserve your distrust?”
“You kicked me in the fuckin’ balls, to start with. We’d literally never met, but you listened to the gossip, you’d already made your decision, then you slammed me.”
“I did hear the gossip,” I agree. “Yes, I did. But I have my own damn brain. I was willing to reserve judgment. But the very first thing you said in front of me was how it’d be easier if I was pretty. How you were gonna steal Jackson’s girl, and it’d be a hardship if I was ugly.”
“That was…” He grunts. “Okay fine, I said that. But I was picking at Price. Not you. That had nothing to do with you on a personal level.”
“Yeah? Well, I kicked you in the balls for being so fucking disrespectful. That had everything to do with you on a personal level. You made your own bed, Bryan. You showed me who you were.”
“I was only picking at the prick,” he groans.
Finally, his hand loosens just a fraction against my wrist.
“I was… I hate him,” he adds. “I literally want to slam him against a brick wall every time I see him. He hurt my family, and there’s no coming back from that.”
“And me?” I ask with a sharp snap of defiance. “What did I do? Or is it a matter of guilty by association?”
He gives a short, fast nod. “You’re riding with them, which means you approve of what he did to my sister.”
“I don’t approve of a damn thing. His actions have nothing to do with me. And you!” Now I’m on a roll. “Let’s talk pots and black kettles, huh? Jenna Price is my best friend. She has been since we were born in the same hospital, in the same week, and brought together at all the same playdates. The rumors I’d heard, the opinion I was trying real hard not to slap on you, came straight from the horse’s mouth. You slept with my best friend, you disrespected her and her relationship. Then you bragged about it in public, just to rub it in to her and her family. Where’s your self-respect, Bryan? Is sex not special to you? You’ll fuck anyone, anytime, and if you get a little payback in the process, then great?”
His eyes are feral. Manic… but somehow, also taunting and playful. “That horse’s mouth you speak of? That unwavering account that you put so much stock in? She was the one who cheated on her man. She’s the dishonorable one, but you trust her word so much?” he scoffs. “Jenna Price is a backstabbing, two-faced, spoiled little bitch that gets off on gossip. She never checks her facts, she spouts them off with her own little twist to make out like she’s a victim, and when someone calls her on it, she doubles down and screeches for her brother or her father to fix her problems.”
“You slept with a taken woman!”
“Did I?” he leans closer, and shows me what his stubble feels like on my hypersensitive skin. “Did I really? Or is that gossip?” he pulls back. “Unless you were there, you can’t know.”
“She was there! She told me.”
“What did she tell you?” He flashes a cruel smile. “She would have told you nothing, because she was filthy drunk and unconscious.”
“Oh wow!” I try to buck him away. “That certainly redeems you. She was unconscious. That totally makes me think better of you.”
“She was drunk, making out with som
eone who was not her man.” He looks around us. “Right about here, actually. Tongue-fucking this dude that knew he shouldn’t have been touching. Her top was off, her pants down. And he was readying to use her up without a lick of remorse. No condom, no conscience, no problem. I removed your friend from a dangerous fucking situation. Saved her from a myriad of STDs and a possible baby. I loaded her into my car, took her someplace safe, and when she was able to go home, I sent her on her way.”
“But… the lipstick?” My voice quivers. “It… she…”
“His wasn’t the first dick I’ve seen in her mouth. She still cheated on her man, and just because I saved her from making it worse, doesn’t mean she should get away with being a dirty slut. I made sure she would tell the truth.”
“You have the entire town thinking you slept with her!”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me what everyone thinks.” He leans closer and growls, “Unlike you, Princess, I’m comfortable in my own skin, and the only people whose opinion matters to me already share my last name. The rest of you, those of you who thrive on local gossip, you can suck my cock. But I wonder… do you realize how little we give a shit about your opinions?”
He tilts his head to the side and, when I say nothing, snaps his teeth. “Give me my hat, and we can go our separate ways. I’ll sit in on your business meetings with my family, I’ll keep my mouth shut, and as long as you act professionally, I’ll behave. But if you fuck them over, I’m gonna do more than write my name on your skin. If I find out you’ve trashed my hat, then we have a massive fucking problem.”
“I didn’t trash it.” My voice cracks. It breaks. And my eyes begin to itch.
I’m going to cry in front of this man, and I can’t figure out if I hate him, or think he’s the kindest person in the world. He saved my friend from something disastrous, but added his own flair of asshole just to be a dick about it.
“I have your hat here,” I whisper. I push him back with my hips, wriggle my hand to ask to be released.
With a huff that makes me think of a bull about to charge, he lets my wrist go, and watches closely as I bring my hand down to my purse and slowly open the zipper.