The following day, Jack ordered me to resume my babysitting gig until the call came through from Pops, then all hands were on deck and the Knights had to roll. But for now, I’d watch Anthony teach a bunch of kids how to throw a punch.
I couldn’t figure this guy out. The tri-state area feared this bastard for his reputation as Victor’s enforcer, yet parents willingly signed their children up to learn from him. Who would’ve thought an ex-gangbanger would open up his own version of The Boys & Girls Club of America. The world was fucked—in a good way. It was pretty awesome of him to turn his life around and take the initiative to get neighborhood kids off the streets. And it was even more awesome that the people who once feared him, gave “Michael Corleone” a chance to do the right thing.
Only in New York.
Bianci was going off on the bag, doing what he did best, showing these kids there was an alternative to their anger and aggression. Watching him hit the heavy bag put me in a trance, like it did every time, and I didn’t hear the bell sound as the door opened.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and I turned to meet Anthony’s wife’s smiling face. On top of being the neighborhood hero, Bianci scored the hottest wife this side of the Hudson. Adrianna winked at me before turning her attention toward her husband.
“How long has been at it?” She asked, as her smile widened, watching as Anthony held the chains of the leather bag and counted the jabs the little five year old was taking.
“About an hour,” I replied, turning toward her. “He should be wrapping up any minute,” I added, but I wasn’t even sure she heard me. She blew Bianci a kiss, and that was my fucking cue to take a breather before I lost my lunch. These two could have you tossing your cookies with all their love bullshit.
I stepped outside the gym, lighting up a cigarette as I rounded the corner. Taking that first drag, I looked up and noticed some teenagers circling my bike.
Fucking, hell no.
“Get away from the bike,” a voice shouted from the car parked on the corner.
I knew that car, towed that piece of crap upstate.
Shit.
“Make me,” one of the little punks shouted.
The car door opened and my mouth dropped, the cigarette fell, nearly burning my lip off. Lauren stepped out of the car, calmly walking around to the trunk and popping it open. She slammed the trunk down and that’s when I saw the baseball bat in her hand.
“I said…get the fuck away from the bike,” she hissed, practicing her swing.
“Whoa, damn, girl…” another punk said, his eyes wide as saucers.
Me and my dick agreed with the punk.
Damn girl.
“You heard her,” I yelled, walking up behind the kid, my eyes on Lauren as she held the bat over her head and stared at me.
“Sorry! We don’t want any trouble,” punk number one cried.
“Then I suggest you run because she looks pissed,” I growled.
“Yeah, but she’s not looking at us anymore, she’s looking at you,” punk number two pointed out.
Kid had a point, those blue eyes were glaring at me.
“Get out of here,” she said, turning her eyes back to the two teens, rearing the bat back to take a swing.
They scampered away from my bike like a bunch of cockroaches, leaving me to deal with a very pissed off Kitten.
She watched as they ran down the block and brought the bat down to her side as she walked back toward the trunk of the car. I thought she’d turn my way that she’d say something but all she did was ignore me.
I pulled my hat from my head and ran my fingers through my hair, deciding on whether I should walk away.
I did it before and it wasn’t that hard.
“Thanks for looking out for my bike, Kitten,” I blurted.
Decision made.
I walked toward her car, watched as she popped her trunk and dropped the baseball bat inside, before slamming it shut again and snarling at me.
Whoa.
Pissed off Kitten was sexy.
“Don’t call me that,” she hissed, walking toward the driver’s door.
“Don’t do that,” I objected, sighing as I walked around the front of her car. She pulled open her door and fixed me with a look.
“Get away from me Riggs before I grab the bat again,” she warned.
“Kitten,” I pleaded.
“I said don’t call me that,” she shouted, slamming the door closed before turning and closing the distance between us. She pressed her palms flat against my chest and shoved me backward.
“I’m not your fucking Kitten,” she hollered. “And you most certainly are no Tiger,” she added.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“You’re a pussy, Riggs,” she answered, dropping her hands from my chest. “Tell me something? Do you do that with all the girls you pretend to give a shit about? Fuck them and ignore them?” She shook her head, about to turn around but stopped, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Just tell me one thing…should I be worried?”
“Worried?”
She rolled her eyes.