“Sorry,” I mumble, then power walk back to Spooks to look for Jaxon.
“Dahlia!” A hand grabs my arm and whips me around. It’s Michael. His fingers tighten on me. “Are you being serious? I was just joking.”
I glare at him and shake my shoulder to knock his hand off me. “Where’s the joke? Nothing you said was funny.”
Michael’s eyes harden and turn cold. “You’re a real bitch, you know that?”
“And you’re an asshole.” I hiss between my teeth as his fingers tighten on my arm. His harsh grip will most likely leave bruises behind.
Michael’s jaw clenches, and he yanks me toward him. I stumble a few steps and he catches me, pulling my body flushagainst his. “No wonder you have bruises and cuts beneath all that makeup. Let me guess, you opened your mouth when you should have done your part as a female and shut the fuc?—”
Sport motorcycles scream down the road and grow closer. Jaxon appears out of nowhere and grabs Michael by the throat. His eyes narrow and lose focus as they turn into bottomless pits.
Shit. He’s blacked out.
“Jaxon,” I whisper.
Michael scratches his blunt nails on the back of Jaxon’s hand, scrabbling to get out of his grip. He knocks back into him, and Jaxon leans with it to prevent him from losing his footing. I gasp and cover my mouth as Jaxon turns Michael around and punches him square in the face.
Michael screams and bends forward, touching his nose with shaking fingers. Jaxon gives him no time to assess his wound before he’s pummeling his fist into Michael over and over. He hits his face, chest, ribs, stomach.
I’ll give Michael credit where it’s due. He puts up a good fight at first but eventually wilts like a dried flower. Jaxon is more seasoned when it comes to fighting. He knows what to do and where his opponent’s weakness is, and he uses it against them.
A crowd gathers around us, watching the fight with concern and horror as Jaxon shoves Michael to the ground and straddles his stomach to keep him down. Two people hold their phones to their ears, most likely calling the police.
The motorcycles draw closer until they’re pulling up and parking right by us. All the riders are wearing their helmets, and I know immediately they’re Jaxon’s friends. I’ve seen them enough times to recognize their forms, along with the stickers they have on their helmets.
My hands shake as fear builds inside me. I’m not scared formyself. I fear for Jaxon possibly going to jail for assault and battery.
“Jaxon. Listen to my voice,” I say, and shove past his friends, rushing to his side. I crouch beside him and wind my arms around his shoulders, gently pulling him to me. “We have to go. They’re calling the police.”
Jaxon doesn’t listen. He just grunts with each punch.
Sirens wail in the distance, and with each passing second, they get louder.
I squeeze Jaxon tighter and push my breasts into his side while I kiss his cheek, then his ear, before I whisper, “Come on, big brother. You still need to punish me. You can’t do that if you’re in jail.”
Jaxon freezes and blinks several times before he turns his icy gaze to me. Little by little, life returns to his eyes. He moves like he’s about to kiss me, then second-guesses himself as he remembers my request. I hold my breath, waiting for what he’ll do next. It’s so wrong that I want him to say fuck it and kiss me anyway.
“Come on, man,” Ryder says, and taps Jaxon on the back of his shoulder.
The sirens get closer.
Jaxon lets go of Michael, who lies limp and bloody.
I help Jaxon up. He shares a look with Ryder and his other friends before he grabs my hand and runs down the sidewalk to his car. I pray my platform boots don’t catch on something and break my ankle as I struggle to keep up with his long strides.
His friends stay behind, and I glance past my shoulder to see what they’re doing. My eyebrows draw together as they lift Michael and maneuver him in their arms.
Jaxon unlocks the car, and I slide inside. The engine comes to life and we peel out, then stop where his friends are.
“What are you doing?” I ask, then turn in my seat as Ryder and Aiden open the door.
“Get out real quick,” Ryder says, loud enough for me to hear through his helmet.
I hesitate, but I do as they say. They toss Michael into the backseat among the plastic bags filled with decorations.
“We’ll meet you at the house,” Ryder says, and shuts the door once I’m back in my seat.
