“Gonna let Mike do it for me,” he sneers, patting his buddy on the back.
Pussy. He’s relying on his muscle man friend to punish me for hooking up with his girl? Whatever happened to fighting for your girl’s honor?
Hartley watches this exchange with increasing concern. “You hit on that guy’s girlfriend?”
I wink at her. “Who, me?”
“Easton.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “I don’t like this.”
“What, that I flirted with his girlfriend or that I’m going to fight him?”
“The fighting.”
It’s hard to tell in the shadows, but I think her face is getting paler. I guess she’s afraid for me? That’s okay. She’ll realize soon enough that there’s nothing to be scared of. I can handle myself.
“Can you please be careful?” she pleads.
Nope. Careful isn’t fun. Careful is boring.
“Of course,” I lie, and she looks relieved by that.
But the moment I step into the ring, I charge recklessly at Muscle Man Mike, because I’m craving his uppercut. I want the pain that jolts through my jaw and rattles my teeth. I want the blood that I spit onto the pavement. Another thing my brother and I have in common, other than our taste in chicks, is our thirst for violence.
I let Mike pound me until I get bored. Then I take him out with two swift blows that send him onto his ass, and lazily wander over to Hartley, who’s staring at me in horror.
“You’re covered in blood!”
She’s right. It’s dripping down my chin and chest, and I can taste its metallic flavor in my mouth. I don’t care, though. I feel so fucking good right now. I feel wired. Alive.
“Wilson,” I call out, ignoring Hartley. “I want some more.”
“Easton,” she says miserably. “Can we leave now? Please?”
“Anybody else want a go at Royal?” Wilson asks the group, grinning from ear to ear.
There are about fourteen dudes littering the pavement. Nearly all of them volunteer to fight with me.
Guess I’ve got beefs with more people than I thought.
“Sit tight,” I tell Hartley. “Lemme just take on a few more.”
“No.” The one word snaps out fast and sharp.
She hops off the crate and gets right in my face, and now that she’s standing closer to the lights, I can see that her skin is pale.
“What’s your deal?” I demand. “It’s just harmless fun.”
“How is this fun! A bunch of guys trying to kill each other? That’s not fun!”
Her vehemence has me rolling my eyes. “Okay, chillax. Nobody’s trying to kill anyone. We’re letting out some aggression, that’s all.”
“Well, I don’t want to watch it!” She crosses her arms tightly. “Take me home.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I honestly never expected you to be this uptight.”
“I don’t like seeing people get hurt, so that makes me uptight?” Her voice is high and shaky, but her gray eyes are blazing. “Why did you bring me here? Why would you ever think I’d enjoy this?”
A frown forms between my brows. I haven’t brought a chick to these fights before. Ella, yeah, but that’s because she followed Reed and me here without our knowledge. Other than that, these late-night visits to the shipyard are just for me. Mine alone. Easton’s world.
So why’d I invite Hartley into my inner world?
“I thought you’d like it,” I finally respond, but the words don’t sound right. That’s not why I brought her along. I…don’t know why I did.
Hartley is quick to call me out. “No, you didn’t. Nothing you do is for anyone else. It’s for you, always.” She scowls at me. “Do you get off on me watching, maybe?”
“No. That’s stupid.”
“That’s stupid?” Her voice rises another octave. “You and these idiots—”
“Hey!” someone protests, and that’s when I realize we’ve got an audience.
“—come out here at night and spend hundreds of dollars to play some idiotic version of Fight Club. If that’s not stupid, I don’t know what is.”
“Then leave, sweetheart!” one of the guys in Muscle Man Mike’s crew calls out irritably.
“Yeah! Quit shrieking like a banshee and get lost!”
“Royal, muzzle your bitch!”
I whirl around, seeking the moron who threw out that last remark. The moment he sees my expression, he takes several nervous steps backward.
“You,” I tell him, jabbing my finger in the air. “You’ll fucking pay for that comment.”
He takes another step back.
“What, you’re gonna hit him, too?” Hartley says in disgust. “Is that how you solve your problems, Easton? With violence?”
“I’m not gonna let some brainless motormouth run you down.”
“I don’t care. He can say all the bad things he wants about me. I don’t care.”
“Well, I do.”
“Then you’re fighting for yourself, not for me. I want to leave,” she says stiffly. “And I want to leave now. So here’s how it’s going to be: you’re either going to put your shirt back on”—she reaches behind her, and then she’s slapping my T-shirt against my bare pecs—“and take me home. Or”—she holds up her cell phone—“I’m going to call the police and get this little party broken up.”
“Narc!”
“Yo, bitch, ever heard the phrase ‘snitches get stitches’?”
“Your girlfriend sucks, Royal.”
Both Hartley and I ignore the shit flying in our direction. We stare each other down. Her eyes are on fire, a dark, stormy gray that sends a chill up my spine. She’s furious with me.
I screwed up, I guess. But I honestly didn’t think a few bareknuckle matches would get her this upset. Ella was kind of squeamish when she came along with us, but I think she actually liked seeing Reed go all animalistic on her.
“Easton,” Hartley says, low and threatening.
I find myself swallowing hard. “Yeah?”
“Take. Me. Home.” She gives me a look so cold it freezes the sweat on my bare chest. “Now.”
Chapter 12
I’m really, really, really sorry. 3 reallys! That’s how u know I mean it
After I send the text, I lie in bed for a good thirty minutes staring at my phone and willing Hartley to respond. She doesn’t. Just like she hadn’t responded to any of the other messages I’d sent between nine thirty and noon today. A total of eight unanswered texts fill our chat history.
There’s a weird weight in my chest that won’t go away. I feel bad, I guess. The look on Hartley’s face at the fights? That wounded look? I can’t seem to erase it from my head. Worse, I don’t know what to do to fix it. She didn’t say a single word on the drive home from the docks last night, not until we reached her apartment. When I tried to get out of the truck to walk her to her door, she glared at me and said, “How does walking me upstairs benefit Easton Royal? It doesn’t. So don’t do it.” Then she jumped out of the pickup and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
It bugs me that she thinks I’m a selfish prick.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I pick up my phone and type another message.
Plz, H, just talk 2 me. otherwise I’m coming over 2 apologize in person
I don’t know if it’s the threat that does it or if she suddenly decided she’s in the mood to answer. Either way, I get results—I see the three gray dots indicating she’s typing something.