But I need to be more patient.
I take my last sweep of the place, shutting off lights as I go, then set the alarm and pull the front door closed behind me as I step onto the sidewalk. But before I turn, something hard comes down on my skull. I stagger and bright stars flash in the dark. I spin and the sidewalk tilts. In the second I fight for balance, a fist cracks off my jaw, knocking me back half a step.
“Not so fucking tough without your tanks and RPGs, are you baby killer?”
Blood trickles into my eye from my scalp and I wipe it away. But I don’t need to see to recognize Poser’s voice.
“Is he crying?” another voice says just as a baseball bat swings through the dark toward my face.
I duck and grab the arm holding it, flinging whoever it’s attached to hard against the side of the building with a heavy thud. Someone grabs my arm and yanks. I lift my elbow sharply at the blurry face and hear a satisfying crunch as bone connects with bone.
“Fuck!” the second voice screams, and the form in front of me collapses in a heap.
I blink to clear my eye and see Poser pull himself up from the sidewalk. His partner in crime is hunched on the sidewalk holding his face. Blood gushes between his fingers from the vicinity of his nose.
“I suggest you take off,” I say, getting my bearings and standing straighter.
Poser’s fists tighten at his sides and he holds his ground, but his buddy’s not so sure. He gains his feet and blinks at Poser, blood running down his face and dripping from his chin. I take the opportunity to elbow him again.
He screams as he turns and runs for a red sedan parked just down the street.
“Don’t you fucking think about it!” Poser shouts at his retreating form, but the coward doesn’t even slow down. He flings himself into the car and the tires squeal as he peals out.
Poser gives me one last glare, then leaps into the road. His buddy slows, but doesn’t stop, and Poser rips open the back door and scrambles in.
Only after they’re gone do I rub my head. The goose egg is already enormous. “Fuckers,” I mutter as I head up the block toward the Torino. I give her a quick once over and she looks unscathed, so I guess they didn’t know which car was mine. I tug my T-shirt over my head and wipe my bloody hands with it before pressing it to my head. Sweat and tears, absolutely, but no way I’m bleeding on my car.
When I get home, I pull into the carport and just sit here with my shirt pressed against my head, waiting for the bleeding to stop. When it does, I duck under the hood of the Torino, deciding she needs new plugs.
I contemplate calling the cops, but it’s not like they’re going to post anyone on the bar. In the end, I decide Poser’s not enough of a man to finish what he started. I doubt he’ll be back.
But there’s no fucking way that Lilah is ever walking home alone again.
At the thought, my mind goes to Ma’s office and all that sweet, wet heat in her mouth and between her legs. And when the sun comes up, I’m covered in grease and no closer to understanding how Lilah Morgan has me so twisted around her finger. All I know for sure is, I hope she never figures out how to untwist me.
Chapter 10
Lilah
Bran’s texted me twice since Saturday. I ignored him. But I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. It’s been four days and I’m still on fire.
I feel like I should be grossed out, kissing someone my sister has slept with, but the sick knot in my stomach has nothing to do with being grossed out and everything to do with knowing my willpower won’t last forever. The high I got from letting myself go with Bran was more intense than any drug I’ve ever tried. I feel the draw of addiction pulling at the root of me, demanding that I feed it. Now I know firsthand why Destiny’s holding out for Bran. He’s a drug that, once you’ve had a taste, is impossible to quit.
But I have to. Even if Bran never wants Destiny the way she wants him, I can’t do that to her.
Luckily, for the last two nights I’ve had a distraction. Lo made it through the Knockout Round last week. Monday and yesterday were live performances. She sang P!nk’s “U + Ur Hand” and kicked ass on the performance show last night, but now that it’s down to the final twenty, it’s live shows and audience voting, so it gets a little dicey.
Tonight is the Wednesday results show, and I settle into the corner of the couch and say a prayer to the music gods that she makes it through before clicking the remote. But the second I do, there’s a bright flash, then the screen goes dark.
“No!” I cry, bolting to my feet. I jab the remote at the TV and punch the power button at least a dozen more times to no avail.
Destiny skids to a stop in her bedroom door, panic in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”