Jesus Christ. Case in point as to why she can’t walk home dressed like this. I shoot the guy a dirty look, then make a split-second decision to jog quickly across the street to my truck in the parking deck. Rummaging around in a gym bag I keep back there, I yank out the first T-shirt I come across before slamming the door and taking off at a dead sprint. I pass the obviously intoxicated guy and scowl at him. His hands go up in surrender, and he begins to back away. He’s not an idiot, just drunk off his ass. The guy’s a regular at fight night and has seen me in action often enough to know I will ram my fist into his mouth and rip out his tonsils if he doesn’t leave her alone.
I catch up to her, and quickly drape the shirt over her shoulder before backing off again. I grit out, “It’s a terrible idea to walk around in a bra top and a bandage masquerading as a skirt, Legacy.”
She stiffens at the nickname, then huffs, but yanks the shirt in front of her, looking at the Guns N’ Roses logo for a quick second before she pulls it over her head. I wince when it falls past mid-thigh on her. Now, it looks like she has no pants on. Oh well. Better than before, I suppose.
A few minutes later, I’m still trailing her from six feet behind. I’ve just tapped out a message to Royal and Wilder.
I’m following her home on foot.
She refused a ride.
Beckham:
Sounds about right.
Royal:
She mad?
Don’t ask dumb questions
if you don’t want dumb answers.
She’s doing that thing some girls do.
You know.
That I’m-so-angry-I’m-crying thing.
“Are you seriously going to follow me home?” she bites out.
I shove my phone back into my pocket. “Are youseriouslyasking me that question?” I study the way her shoulders have slumped and how her gait has slowed. I know a little bit about women, and I’d surmise that not only is she physically tired, but she’s also exhausted by this entire situation she’s found herself in.
She turns her head to look at me, and I lift my brows, my lips pinched shut in a grim smile. With a shake of her head, she stares up at the sky for a second before she relents. “Fine. If you’re going to be a creeper, you might as well walk up here with me.” Air gusts from her. “This is a longer walk than I thought.”
All I have to do is play the part of her savior and I’m golden. Hurrying to catch up, I fall into step beside her. We’re both quiet for almost a full minute before she speaks. “Thanks for the T-shirt.”
I bob my head, shoving my hands into my pockets. “No problem.”
“You like Guns N’ Roses?”
“Yeah. I like most late eighties-early nineties metal bands.”
“Cool. Me too. I like most music, though. I kinda collect concert T-shirts.” She folds her arms over her chest as we stroll. “Don’t be surprised if you don’t get this one back.”
I huff out a laugh. “Noted.” From the corner of my eye, I watch each and every step she’s taking. Those fucking shoes are probably killing her feet. The speed walking is definitely over for the evening. Maybe I can get her mind off it. “So. You and that Royal guy. What the fuck was that?”
Her inhaled breath is audible, and she slowly turns her head to meet my gaze. “He used to be my brother’s best friend. There are a lot of old wounds there.”
Used to be.What the fuck happened? This is entirely new information to me, and it has my brain jumping to make all the connections. I already knew Echo and Davis were siblings. Hell, I knew from their fight that Royal must have done something to Davis’s car prior to his prison days. But Royal has never once said anything about a best friend from back home that he was estranged from. “He seemed pretty pissed to see you.” I snort, remembering the fucking Vaseline jar that’d come flying at my face. “Pretty pissed that we were sitting with you, too.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s been ugly for years.”
“What happened between them?”
Wincing, she shakes her head. “That’s private. And you and I just met two nights ago.”
I clamp my teeth together and nod. “No problem. I hear you.” I shoot a smirk in her direction. “So, do you always get into cars with strangers?”
