Winch simply wipes the blood in a long, wild, red streak across his cheek. There’s still a trickle leaking from his nose, but it seems to interest his opponent more than it does him.
The blond takes one more swing, and this time we all know it’s over before he follows through. With that massive an amount of force, aimed right at Winch’s temple, I know full well I’m going to be in the ER with him, getting an MRI to make sure his brains still operate.
The silver pricks of light are back, and I pitch forward, hands braced on my knees, and will my legs not to give out, not yet, when two solid thunks burst through the air and bring gasps and cheers from a portion of the crowd.
I stand straight up and Winch is rolling his neck from side to side, the other guy is doubled over, and the crowd is getting louder. The blond guy attempts to stand tall, but he falls back over, and his brother/twin bursts forward, fists poised, and delivers a vicious punch to Winch’s back that loosens a scream from my throat before I can hold it back.
Winch twists and punches back with quick, knuckle-heavy jabs on the guy’s lower back and rib area, and he manages to take the huge hulk, writhing in pain, down to the ground, the two of them throwing hard punches as they fall.
The crowd is jostling hard now. I have no idea where the bear of a guy I thought I’d stay close to is, and I can only see snippets of the fight through the moving bodies stepping closer for a more direct view of the gore and nudging me farther back. The last thing I see is a smear of red glistening on the concrete.
Winch’s blood or the other guy’s? My stomach recoils, and I swallow back the urge to vomit right on the stomping boots of this crowd. I press past, getting pushed two steps backward for every step forward I manage to take, and by the time I hit the outside edges of the inner circle again, I manage to catch Winch’s eye.
His head jerks up, and he glares through an already bruised, purpling socket, putting a strangle-hold on the other guy and punching him in the ear with a menacing fist. Just when I’m sure he’s going to drop the guy’s head onto the cement, the abbreviated warning of a police siren screams in the near distance.
The congealed crowd of raging, yelling lunatics suddenly disperses into every imaginable direction, stampeding into waiting cars, slipping down shaded alleys, ducking into suddenly opened doors which close just as quickly.
I try to run toward Winch, but he yells to me, “Remy’s in the back!”
“I’ll bring the car around!”
He locks eyes with me, and for one long second, I know he debates giving me the okay. I don’t wait for his permission. If I want to get out of here and have a chance in hell of getting Winch and Remy away from this craziness without another arrest, we have to move.
I use my elbows, knees, head, whatever I can to break through the insane, crazed stampede and finally get back to Winch’s car. I tug the keys out of my pocket and slide in, then back down the nearest side street as quickly as I can while checking for darting, panicked spectators on the run, praying the cops are coming from the other direction and that no one is coming down the one-way I’m illegally driving on like a lunatic. Part of me is scared shitless, and another huge part of me feels like a badass cowgirl living on the edge.
I whip the car around and bump the back fender into a cement planter full of tiger lilies. The bump jars all thoughts of badassary out of my head and makes me grimace with the realization that I almost definitely dented Winch’s car.
I make a more careful circuit to the back of the ring of buildings where they were fighting, and Winch runs over, dragging Remy under the shoulders.
I reach across the car and push the passenger doors open, and the guys fall in. I’m pulling out before Winch has both legs in, and he slams the door shut as we negotiate our way down a long, quiet, shady, up-and-coming street that borders back-alley fight clubs, apparently, but doesn’t attract much police attention. I keep a decent speed, don’t rack up any traffic violations, and glance over at Winch.
“Where do you need to go?” I ask, trying not to let my eyes linger too long over his sweat-soaked muscles.
This is pervertedly sexy. Like Googling “sexy, sexy, sexy man” and gazing at pics for hours sexy. My hormones are officially out of fucking control.
“Why the hell didn’t you stay in the car?” Winch demands, his nostrils flared in fury.
And it’s like he just ignited the spark against the propane tank of my temper.
“This isn’t a game, Evan. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. Girls show up at this stuff, and it’s like porn for them. They can’t resist it.” He squirms in the passenger seat, obviously uncomfortable not being the one behind the wheel.
I grip the steering wheel and try very hard to come up with something not entirely vulgar to say to him, especially considering I was just ogling his muscles a second ago. I’m not about to acknowledge that, though.
“Porn? Are you kidding me? You think I wrestled through that big-ass, scary-ass crowd so I could see you with your shirt off? If you think your muscles are worth all that trouble, your ego needs some major taming.”
Remy, head leaned on the back seat, lets out a scratchy chuckle. “I like this girl.” He lifts his battered face and squints. “This the one that made you all antsy at dinner? I get it now. I so get it now.”
“Shut up, Remy,” Winch growls.
“Make me, Muhammad Fucking Ali.” Before they can get into a spat, Remy’s phone plays the Stormtrooper March from Star Wars.
“Hey Mama,” he answers, and I have an instant fit of the giggles. Winch doesn’t drop his glare for a single second. “Fight? Not at all. I mean, we were there, but we didn’t fight. Well, you know those guys can get a little rough, so we had to defend some girls— Uh-huh. Okay. Yeah. Twenty minutes.”
He slides his phone back in his pocket and winks in the rearview mirror at me. “Guess who’s coming to dinner? Take the next left and make a u-turn. We’re off East Taylor.”
Winch massages his temples, and I look at Remy in the mirror in frantic panic, made extra upsetting because their house is off East Taylor, one of the oldest, richest streets in Savannah. Which means that I will be judged based on how I look and talk and carry myself from the moment I walk through the doors.
“I’m not dressed for dinner!”
I have on my black ‘have your way with me on the beach’ sexy coverup with my scandalous red bikini under it. I glance in the mirror and see that my makeup is a smudged wreck and my hair needs more than a brush; it needs a fresh wash, deep condition, and style.
And Winch, bloodied, bruised, exhausted, infuriated, and tricked, looks up at me and meets my eyes for a brief second across the interior of the car. When he speaks, his voice is solid with an unquestioning conviction.
“You look perfect, Evan. You look completely fucking perfect, you are completely fucking perfect, so stop worrying. Now.”
And I listen to him and drive to East Taylor with a blush and a smile on my face.
Winch 9
Evan is coming to my house.
I’ve never been so fucking pissed off at my brother in my life. My adrenaline is pumping like a drug, and punching him a few times in his fat head definitely occurs to me. And it doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all.
The only thing that stops me is the look in Evan’s eyes when we pull up to my family’s monstrous house. Like she’s scared. Like she shouldn’t even bother. Like she’s not ready for all this.
Remy rolls out the passenger door. “I’ll go in and let them know you two will be in in a minute, okay?”
I glare at him and he stuffs both hands in the pockets of his pants, flecked with blood, and whistles like a fucking clown while he walks to the house.
“You can take me home, right?” Evan’s voice has this wavery quality I never imagined coming from her before. “Because I know I asked for this, but joke’s on me. Hardy har har. I’m ready for you to tell me what an ass I am and drop me back home now.” She taps her fingers
in a quick, vicious beat on the steering wheel.
“You look unbelievably beautiful.”
I mean it when I say it, but I know she’s seeing herself the way my mother will see her. And I know my mother will disagree with me one hundred percent.
“I can’t go in there with them, Winch. This whole day has been a mess. I want…I want it to work between us, and that isn’t possible if I screw this all up.”
She checks the mirror and her mouth flattens. She lets out a strangled gasp and wipes at the smeared makeup under her eyes. I put a hand out and touch the delicate bone at her wrist, slide my fingers against her skin, and rub slow circles I hope help calm her down.
“I can help. Trust me?” It’s a lot to ask her, after everything I dragged her through.
“I do,” she says, her voice soft.
I take her by the hand and lead her around the back of the house to the French doors outside a patio with a koi pond, fountain, and little stone benches. I rap my knuckles on the glass and Benelli’s face peeks through one pane. She yanks the door open, brow furrowed.
“Winch? What happened? Lala said there was a fight. Are you okay? Is Remy?” My sister’s blue eyes flick over Evan and she frowns, but doesn’t ask a single question about her.
“Remy got in deep with the Murrays—”
“Holy Mother of God, what is he thinking?” Benelli makes a fist and shakes it, her lips pulled back in a snarl. “He’s going too far. We have to tell Pop…” Her voice trails off and she clears her throat gently, making a point to not look at Evan. “Winchester, I need to speak with you in private.”
“Not now.” I narrow my eyes and shake my head at my sister’s attempt to argue. “Not. Now. Mama is setting up for dinner and Evan is coming. But she was at the fight and she’s not exactly dinner ready.”
Benelli crosses her slim arms and tosses her shiny hair over her shoulder. “Wait a minute. You—” She pauses and jabs a finger at my chest, “took her to a fight? A fight with the Murrays? Have you lost your damn mind?”
“We were on a date when he got the call—” Evan begins to explain, but my sister throws a palm in her face and shushes her.
Rage burns dangerously hot through me, and I do what I never do. I snap at Benelli.
“Don’t you dare disrespect her.” Benelli was all wound up to deliver some tough-girl, shoulder-swaying, hip-shaking speech, but her mouth falls open and she’s standing totally still, perfectly mute. “Evan is our guest.” I look over and Evan is breathing hard through her nostrils, fists balled at her sides. “And my girlfriend. I need your help, Bene. Do this for me, please.”
At the word ‘girlfriend,’ Evan’s fingers unfurled.
At the same word, my sister’s mouth snapped shut in indignation. “Girlfriend?” she barks out.
Before she can say anything else, Evan cuts in. “It’s time for me to leave.”
“No offense, Winchester, but you should listen to your girlfriend. Dinner with Mama? After a big fight? This is going to be crazy enough.” She runs her eyes over Evan like she’s not sure what she thinks.
Evan nods and grabs my arm. “Listen to her, Winch. I don’t want to make anything harder for you right now. And I want your family to like me. Since, let’s face it, the odds are stacked against me, just listen to Benelli and take me home.”
Her eyes are swimmy with tears I know she’s not about to shed in front of my sister. They’re begging me for mercy, to release her from this catastrophic situation, and I’m ready to do what she needs. I’ve been beat down in too many ways to count today.
Benelli’s voice cuts through our wordless conversation. “Evan?” She huffs a little, but her eyes are lowered with something that looks an awful lot like shame. “We may be a little…eccentric. But we’re not monsters. There’s no point in your going home. Mama always cooks enough for the whole town. And I have a dress—if you want to wear it. I’ll completely understand if you want to run away from all of us. But, seriously, you have the coloring to pull this dress off and I so don’t, so I’d be happy for you to have it. But I understand if you’d rather not.”
My sister still sounds half-pissy and rude as hell, but it only takes Evan a few seconds to make up her mind. I can tell by the way she squares her shoulders that she isn’t going to go down without a fight, and I have a sudden, weird thought: I’m glad Evan wasn’t born a guy and a Murray, because I wouldn’t have had a chance in hell in the ring today if she had been.
“Thank you. I would appreciate it if you could also lend me a brush and a little makeup.”
Evan and my sister stare at each other like two queens from warring nations, ready to make tentative peace.
“Shoo, Winch.” Benelli flicks her fingers my way, and I give Evan a look to let her know she can call uncle at any second, and I’ll unwind this whole messy obligation for her.
But she pushes a limp, scraggly piece of hair out of her face and says, “You heard her. Shoo. We have an emergency make-over, and I’m going to need all the help your sister can offer me.”
I feel a good, relieved clutch in my chest, but before I can kiss her or whisper anything sexy and secret against her ear, Benelli yanks Evan into the little pink-and-gold, girly sanctuary of her room and slams the French doors closed on me.
I head to my rooms and wash up, change into clothes that aren’t covered in blood and grime, and clean out and bandage the worst of my injuries. Thankfully, I won’t need to visit the ER. Unfortunately, I may have broken my nose, but it’s still too soon to tell. Remy pops in.
“Dinner in twenty.” He reads my confused face and grins. “Benelli came to the rescue, and Mom suspended the rules for once.”
“She ask about your bashed-up melon?”
Unlike me, Remy didn’t bother to change his clothes or wash off the blood, and I’m not sure he would have bothered except for the fact that my father doesn’t put up with shenanigans about dinner manners. You come neat, dressed, and on your best behavior in his house.
“I gave her a song and dance. No reason to get her all worried. We were the knights in shining armor, in case she asks.”
He leaves me hanging on purpose, the same smug face he always wore when we were just kids and he was dangling a toy he knew I wanted in front of me.
“Did you tell her about Evan? What did she say?” I’m surprised to see the gleeful look wipe off his face.
“I thought you’d ask what got me in the ring with the Murray brothers today.” He leans a shoulder against the wall and zeros in on me.
Why didn’t I ask him? I’m usually running like a fool, trying to figure out what makes Remy tick and why, I guess so I can try to analyze his next move. Which was always a pretty useless plan. You can’t predict anarchy.
“I figured it out already. It’s because you’re a fucking idiot. What did Mama say about Evan?”
Remy’s silent for two beats, enough time for me to see the confusion and disappointment roll across his face.
“She said, ‘Not Lala?’. Then she said, ‘Twenty minutes.’ I think she’s making szűz tekercsek. You know how into it she gets when she’s making that.” He backs out, smacking the edge of my door with the palm of his hand. “See you at the table.”
His voice is ringed with an anticipation that makes my stomach queasy.
It’s a long, anxious twenty minutes, and I know Benelli worked some kind of strong voodoo on our mother, because dinner waits for no man at her table. It’s after six. I never in my life remember dinner starting after six. It’s six straight up, and most nights every one of us is expected around the table, plus usually a handful or three of our closest relatives and family friends.
We’re all seated when Benelli comes in, followed by Evan.
I almost knock my chair back when they walk in, and I feel like someone sucker-punched me in the throat.
My sister is a schemer, and the dress she put Evan in is this innocent soft yellow, light and sweet enough for our grandmother, never mind our mother, to a
pprove of. But it’s also made of some kind of fabric so lightweight, it clings to every one of her curves and makes her skin look even more touchably soft than it usually does.
I’m dying to skip this whole migraine-inducing dinner and take her to the beach, to the beach house, to my room, to my bed, to do whatever we want for however long we want, while my brother and all his bullshit rots in hell for all I care.
I pull the chair next to me out for her and let my hands furtively graze the sweet curves of her body as I push it in.
“You look amazing,” I murmur for her ears alone. I watch the pink deepen around her cheekbones and the roots of her hair. When she’s settled, I turn to the table. “Mama, Pop, this is Evan Lennox. My girlfriend.”
Mama clanks the serving spoon she was holding into the dish with a little more force than necessary.
Evan looks each of my parents in the eye. “It’s so nice to meet you both. Thank you for having me over on such short notice. I hope it wasn’t an inconvenience.”
She smoothes her napkin on her lap and graces everyone with a cool, collected smile.
Deep down, I want to fist pump with satisfaction. Evan knows exactly how to fight this battle, and she’ll mutilate everyone in my family with her awesome manners.
Mama rushes to tell her that it was no trouble at all, and the tense first minutes get replaced by the usual food distribution flurry. I pour Evan some white wine, shipped over from my great-uncle’s vineyard in Hungary. She takes a sip and smiles, and I feel a twinge of worry. She’s so deep in character at this table, I have no idea if I can read anything she says or does accurately.
Does she like the wine, the food, my family, or is this all a cool, calm show worthy of one of my own performances?
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