Fall Guy (26 page)

The people in the tightest inner ring seem to be taking bets and keeping score, but I don't know how it all works.

Remy, thin and wiry, dark hair falling into his blue eyes, slight
beer gut
giving him an older, sloppy look, hops in the middle, bobbing and weaving back and forth, fists up, blood already leaking in small strands from his nose and mouth. He takes a bare knuckle hit to his eye, and the ferocious smack of skin and bone on skin and bone makes my stomach churn.

Remy shakes his head back and forth a few times, snorts, and runs at the guy who hit him, a brawny blond with a ruddy face. He knocks headfirst into the guy's stomach, throwing him to the ground with such
intensity,
he
knocks the wind right out of his opponent
.

Half the crowd erupts into shattering cheers, half hisses and snarls with jeers and threats.

"One more, Youngblood!
Take that Murray fucker down!" Remy's fans roar.

There are tons of them, and they all gasp in horror when the blond guy catches his breath and comes up swinging, packing a blow on each side of Remy's head. Remy falls back into the arms of a guy who calls out some numbers, drags him back, and pushes Winch into the middle.

The entire crowd suddenly loses its volume and focus and my vision blurs at the edges and stretches back and forth with a swooning dip and hurl.

He's stripped off the white shirt, and he's all flat-packed muscles and smooth tanned skin, with more tattoos then I had a chance to see in the dark
of my bedroom the night before.

'Youngblood' is scrawled in swirling
letters in an arc across his abs. There's a huge cross between his shoulder blades, a rifle on his ribs, and two diving swallows on his
pecs
.

There are more than a few girls in the crowd, and every one of them gets hushed and whispers with pleasure when he comes to the center.

I don't want him to know I broke his only rule about leaving the car, but I'd like him to see me, know I'm here for him. And, much as I despise that whole piss-on-your-territory vibe some girls give off, I'm feeling a bit like a dog by a hydrant when I see all the shiny hair flips and mascara-laden eyelash bats Winch is getting from every single direction.

But Winch doesn't see me or anyone else. His expression is grim and determined. He shakes off well wishers who pat him on the back as he takes his place, feet apart in a relaxed stance, fists up and loosely ready.

My heart is punching in my chest, holding onto the bars of my ribs and banging itself against them. My mouth is parched, my palms are slick with sweat, and my entire body gives little uncertain jerks and jumps based on the swirling mix of worry and anticipation that rocks through me.

The ruddy guy who fought Remy is pulled back, and an identical-looking replacement falls
into the center of the ring, already snarling and lunging. Winch holds back, taking a graze on the side of the head and another weak jab on the ribs.

Seeing him get hit in any capacity make me crazed with worry, but I trust him to know how to manipulate this whole situation. This is how he's ga
u
ging the fight, how he's going to calculate his moves for an ultimate win. I have to trust that he can handle himself.

He takes a harder hit to his shoulder, ducks down and weaves back. The crowd around him starts to hiss and boo, thirsty for more blood from this show.

I don't know if I've ever hated a crowd of people more than I hate these people right now. I honestly wish the earth would open under them and suck them into the bowels of hell. How could they want the blood and pain that's going to come? I choke back a gag when the
first
facial
punch
lands.

A fountain of blood erupts from Winch's nose, crimson red and so horrifyingly alive and gruesome, pinpricks of silver spot in front of my eyes and I feel like I'm looking down a long, black tunnel. I stagger a little and bump into a guy who gives me a callous shoulder push back. I swallow hard, but my saliva tastes acrid in my mouth. I take a few deep breaths and steady myself back on my feet, ready to see this to the finish.

Winch simply wipes the blood in a long, wild, red streak across his cheek. There's still a trickle leaking from his nose, but it seems to interest his opponent more than it does him.

The blond takes one more swing, and this time we all know it's over before he follows through. With that massive an amount of force, aimed right at Winch's temple, I know full well I'm going to be in the ER with him, getting an MRI to make sure his brains still operate.

The silver pricks of light are back, and I pitch forward, hands braced on my knees, and will my legs not to give out, not yet, when two solid
thunks
burst through the air and bring gasps and
cheers from a portion of the crowd.

I stand straight up and Winch is rolling his neck from side to side, the other guy is doubled over, and the crowd is getting louder. The blond guy attempts to stand tall, but he falls back over, and his brother/twin bursts forward, fists poised, and delivers a vicious punch to Winch's back that loosens a scream from my throat before I can hold it back.

Winch twists and punches back with quick, knuckle-heavy jabs on the guy's lower back and rib area, and he manages to take the huge hulk, writhing in pain, down to the ground
, the two of them throwing hard punches as they fall
.

The crowd is jostling hard now. I have no idea where the bear of a guy I thought I'd stay close to is, and I can only see snippets of the fight through the moving bodies stepping closer for a more direct view of the gore and nudging me farther back. The last thing I see is a smear of red glistening on the concrete.

Winch's blood or the other guy's?
My stomach recoils, and I swallow back the urge to vomit right on the stomping boots of this crowd. I press past, getting pushed two steps backward for every step forward I manage to take, and by the time I hit the outside edges of the inner circle again, I manage to catch Winch's eye.

His head jerks up
,
and he glares through an already bruised,
purpling socket, putting a
strangle-hold
on
the
other
guy and punch
ing
him in the ear with a menacing fist. Just when I'm sure he's going to drop the guy's head onto the cement, the abbreviated warning of a poli
ce siren screams
in the near distance.

The congealed crowd of raging, yelling lunatics suddenly disperses into every imaginable direction, stampeding into waiting cars, slipping down shaded alleys, ducking into suddenly opened doors which close just as quickly.

I try to run toward Winch, but he yells to me, "Remy's in the back!"

"I'll bring the car around!"

He locks eyes with me, and for one long second, I know he debates giving me the okay. I don't wait for his permission. If I want to get out of here and have a chance in hell of getting Winch and Remy away from this craziness without another arrest, we have to move.

I use my elbows, knees,
head
, whatever I can to break through the insane, crazed stampede and finally get back to Winch's car. I tug the keys out of my pocket and slide in, then back down the nearest side street as quickly as I can while checking for darting, panicked spectators on the run, praying the cops are coming from the other direction and that no one is coming down the one-way I'm ill
egally driving on like a lunatic
. Part of me is scared shitless, and another huge part of me feels like a badass cowgirl living on the edge.

I whip the car around and bump the back fender into a cement planter full of tiger lilies. The bump jars all thoughts of
badassary
out of my head and makes me grimace with the realization that I almost definitely dented Winch's car.

I make a more careful circuit to the back of the ring of buildings where they were fighting, and Winch runs over, dragging Remy under the shoulders.

I reach across the car and push the passenger doors open, and the guys fall in. I'm pulling out before Winch has both legs in, and he slams the door shut as we negotiate our way down a long, quiet, shady, up-and-coming street that borders bac
k-alley fight clubs, apparently
, but doesn't attract much police attention
. I keep a decent speed, don't
rack up any traffic violations, and glance over at Winch.

"Where do you need to go?" I ask, trying not to let my eyes linger too long over his sweat-soaked muscles.

This is
pervertedly
sexy. Like
Googling
"sexy,
sexy, sexy man" and gazing at
pics
for hours
sexy. My hormones are officially out of fucking control.

"Why the hell didn't you stay in the car?" Winch demands, his nostrils flared in fury.

And it's like he
just ignited the spark against the propane tank
of my temper.

"This isn't a game, Evan. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. Girls show up at this stuff, and it's like porn for them. They can't resist it." He squirms in the passenger sea
t, obviously uncomfortable not being the one behind the wheel
.

I grip the steering wheel and try very hard to come up with something not entirely vulgar to say to him
, especially considering I was just ogling his muscles a second ago. I’m not about to acknowledge that, though
.

"Porn?
Are you kidding me? You think I wrestled through that big-ass, scary-ass crowd so I could see you with your shirt off? If you think your muscles are worth all that trouble, your ego needs some major taming."

Remy, head leaned on the back seat, lets out a scratchy chuckle. "I like this girl." He lifts his battered face and squints. "
This the
one that made you all antsy at dinner? I get it now. I so get it now."

"Shut up, Remy," Winch growls.

"Make me, Muhammad Fucking Ali." Before they can get into a spat, Remy's phone plays the
Stormtrooper
March from
Star Wars
.

"Hey Mama," he answers, and I have an instant fit of the giggles. Winch doesn't drop his glare for a single second.
"Fight?
Not at all.
I mean, we were there, but we didn't
fight
. Well, you know those guys can get a little rough, so we had to defend some girls-- Uh-huh. Okay. Yeah. Twenty m
inutes."

He slides his phone back in his pocket
and winks in the rearview mirror at me. "Guess who's coming to dinner? Take the next left and make a u-turn. We're off East Taylor."

Winch massages his temples, and I look at Remy in the mirror in frantic panic, made extra upsettin
g because their house is off
East Taylor, one of the oldest, richest streets in Savannah.
Which means that I will be judged based on how I look and talk and carry myself from the moment I walk through the doors.

"I'm not dressed for dinner!"

I have on my black '
have your way
with me on the beach' sexy cover-up with my scandalous red bikini under it. I glance in the mirror and see that my makeup is a smudged wreck and my hair needs more than a brush; it needs a fresh wash, deep condition, and style.

And Winch, bloodied, bruised, exhausted, infuriated, and tricked, looks up at me and meets my eyes for a brief second across the interior of the car. When he speaks, his voice is solid with an unquestioning conviction.

"You look perfect, Evan. You look completely fucking perfect, you
are
completely fucking perfect, so stop worrying.
Now."

And I listen to him and drive to East Taylor with a blush and a smile on my face.

Evan is coming to my house.

I've never been so fucking pissed off at my brother in my life. My adrenaline is pumping like a drug, and punching him a few times in his fat head definitely occurs to me. And it doesn't seem like a bad idea at all.

The only thing that stops me is the look in Evan's eyes when we pull up to my family's monstrous house.
Like she's scared.
Like she shouldn't even bother.
Like she's not ready for all this.

Remy rolls out the passenger door. "I'll go in and let them know you two will be in
in
a minute, okay?"

I glare at him and he stuffs both hands in the pockets of his pants, flecked with blood, and whistles like a fucking clown while he walks to the house.

"You can take me home, right?" Evan's voice
has this
wavery
quality I never imagined coming from her before. "Because I know I asked for this, but
joke's
on me.
Hardy
har
har
.
I'm ready for you to tell me what an ass I am and drop me back home now." She taps her fingers in a quick, vicious beat on the steering wheel.