I look to Hartley, who echoes the praise with a single thumbs-up. Would it kill her to show a little more admiration? Two thumbs maybe? Jeez.
“Hi,” Ella greets Bran. “I’m Ella.”
“Bran.” He sticks out his hand. “I think we have Spanish together.”
Ella nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. You sit in the front row.”
“The front row? Nerd,” Val teases, waggling her eyebrows at Bran.
“This is Val,” I tell him, gesturing to Ella’s best friend. “And Hartley.” I jerk my head at the girl who thinks one thumbs-up sums up how amazing I played tonight.
“Confession time.” Bran makes a little gesture with his finger and all three girls lean in. Even Hartley. “I actually don’t mind school.”
Hartley mock gasps. “Well, since we’re baring our souls and all… Me neither.”
The two exchange a grin that makes me want to gag.
“School is how those in power train young, malleable minds into enforcing the status quo,” I bite out.
Everyone wears varying looks of surprise. Bran wrinkles his forehead. Val’s and Ella’s brows crash together. Hartley looks utterly dumbfounded.
“Um, okay,” she says.
Ella pats me on the back. “Don’t mind him. He’s mad because he only got to sack the quarterback once.”
Bran nods. “That’s what he was saying before. Sorry, bro. Next time I’ll make sure to score quicker so you can have more opportunities on defense.”
“Bran!” someone shouts. “You coming?”
Our celebrated quarterback raises a hand. “On my way. See you at the party, folks.”
The girls wave at him as he jogs toward a souped-up Nissan GT-R. Those are Dom’s wheels. Bran’s having no problem fitting in, apparently. I should be overjoyed by that, but the prospect of going to the party and watching him and Hartley—who barely gives me the time of day—flirt with each other makes me want to punch something.
“What’s wrong?” Hartley asks warily.
I shove my hands in my pockets to hide my fists. From the corner of my eye I see that Ella is also watching me, but rather than suspicious, her expression is resigned. She knows me well enough to figure out what’s going on.
“Easton?” Hartley presses.
I shrug a few times, because my shoulders feel like moving. “I don’t know, I just get like this sometimes. Like there’s all this energy rushing through my blood.” I shrug about five more times. “It’s fine. I’ll settle down.”
“How?”
“I just need to expend some energy.”
Ella frowns.
“What?” I say defensively. “She asked.”
Hartley leans against the passenger door of my truck. “Okay. So how do you do that?”
I give her an overly lewd look that includes a lot of eyebrow waggling.
“No way, Royal. Remember the rules.”
Val snorts. “What rules?”
“Har-Har over here—”
“‘Har-Har’?” Hartley growls.
“New nickname,” I say, waving a dismissive hand before turning to Val. “Anyway, Har-Har gave me a list of friendship rules. It’s the only way she’ll grace me with her presence.”
“And one of those rules is that he’s not allowed to hit on me,” Hartley explains.
“How do I sign up for that?” Val asks eagerly.
“Hey, I wasn’t hitting on anyone,” I protest. “You asked how I like to unwind, and that’s the answer.” Well, there’s another answer, too, but I’m not going to say it out loud, not with Ella still watching me like a hawk. She knows exactly what I’m hoping to do tonight, and she doesn’t like it.
“Why don’t we all go to Dom’s place in your truck?” Ella’s tone sounds overly cheerful. “I’ll leave my car here and get it later.”
Yup, she’s in babysitter mode. “Sorry, sis. That’s a dumb idea,” I say just as cheerfully. “You’re not leaving a convertible in the Astor parking lot where those asswipes from Gatwick can get to it. We crushed them tonight, and they’re petty.”
“He’s got a point,” Val says, backing me up. “When we beat them last year, they spray painted the south lawn neon yellow. Let’s take your car to be safe.”
Ella knows when she’s beaten. “All right. Val and I will meet you there.” She stares at me. “Right?”
“Of course,” I assure her.
I’m lying through my teeth.
The second the four of us part ways and Hartley and I are alone in my pickup, I turn to my passenger and say, “Mind if we take a little detour?”
Chapter 11
I can tell Hartley is confused and a little nervous, but she’s being a good sport about this. She hops the fence at the edge of the shipyard without a single complaint, and she doesn’t say a word as we dart through the dark maze of shipping containers. It’s not until we reach our destination that she turns to me with concern in her eyes.
“What is this?”
“Fight night,” I explain happily. Adrenaline is burning in my veins, and my fists haven’t even struck flesh yet.
Except then I look around and am a bit disappointed. There’s not much of a crowd tonight, which is weird, because it’s Friday and the weekend fights are usually packed. I guess people are still scared to show their faces after that bust that happened a while back.
But oh well. I’ll just have to live with the smaller turnout. I don’t need to beat the crap out of thirty dudes. Just one’ll do.
“You’re planning to fight?” Hartley asks anxiously.
I take her arm and lead her toward a stack of crates away from the action. In the middle of the circle, two big dudes are already at it, fists swinging and insults flying. I don’t want Hartley to accidentally get jostled by any of the cheering onlookers.
“Why don’t you sit down,” I suggest. “I’ve got to take care of something.”
Hartley sits, although she looks reluctant.
I strip off my shirt and toss it on the crate next to her. I don’t miss the way her eyes widen slightly. Is she checking out my chest? Guess she didn’t get enough of my abs earlier. I reach above my head and make a show of stretching. Hartley twists her head to avoid looking at me. I grin. Girl is smitten.
“Yo, Royal! Buy in!”
I reach into my back pocket. “Here,” I tell Wilson, the shaved-head dude who oversees the exchange of cash.
I slap a stack of bills in his meaty hand. It costs a lot to fight, but I’m a Royal. I can afford it. There’s potential to win a lot, too, but now that Reed’s not fighting, I’ve got nobody to bet on. I can’t bet on myself—that’s no fun, especially since I already know the outcome.
“Blondie over there called dibs on you the moment you got here,” Wilson tells me, flashing a toothy grin.
I peer past his huge shoulder toward the tall, blond gym rat standing with a group of three or four other guys. Ah yeah. I recognize them as the douchey frat brothers from that party I went to last weekend. I think I might’ve banged one of their girlfriends.
“Royal!” one of them snaps. His face is red, eyes narrowed. “You ever come near my girl again and I’ll end you!”
Guess it was his girlfriend. I give Tomato Face a little wave. “How about you try to end me right now?” I gesture to the center of the circle that’s blocked out for the fights.