“Dunne, she’s more precious than gold to me. You lay a finger on her and I put a bullet through your teeth.”
“Right, sir. I’ll keep Harley safe.”
“I’m talking about the Bugatti, son. You let anyone else touch her and you’ll do time. Don’t doubt it. Harley will be fine. Don’t let any of my other babies get scratched in transport either.”
Reality was I was rushing there to make sure nobody touched her, not because she was my boss's daughter and I’d given my word, but because I cared about her. I wanted her safe.
I parked the bike haphazardly and stormed into the house. Pot smoke lingered on the front porch that was littered with beer bottles. The place was like a frat house, but more run down—not Ivy League, more like South Banks style.
"Locke," I shouted over the music, my voice sounding feral and menacing even to myself. I might have cleaned up my act, but I knew how to fight and when I turned on the anger that simmered underneath, these fuckers were all scared of me. They remembered what I was capable of. I didn’t let it go, I held onto my wrath with gusto. If it prevented even one of them from doing what was done to Kat, then I’d be satisfied.
"Hey, brother," Locke said. He was all prep boy, but with a handful of vices. Tall, lean, clean-cut, but a cigarette dangled from his mouth and he fisted a giant bottle of Jagermeister. That was Locke, always the life of the party, never the designated driver. A true friend and confident—one of the only successful crossovers from South Banks to East Point. Locke and I had gone to elementary school together.
"You're fuckin drunk?" I asked, pissed.
"Well, it's a party, isn't it?"
"Where is she," I growled.
"Who?"
"Are you high too," I demanded. "Harley Brooks."
"Who the fuck is Harley? Isn’t that a dudes name?”
“You called me and said she was here. The Brooks girl.”
“Oh, you mean Hailey? Over there with Gianna?"
I followed his finger as he pointed to some oaf who looked wasted. He was sweating through his shirt and had his frat boy hair pulled back in a sweat band. Sperry Topsider shoes, ugly polo, khaki pants, Rolex. His back was to me and he was talking animatedly to someone. He was big and cut, possibly crew or a swimmer. I couldn’t place him, didn’t know his name or his family. But I knew him; I knew all of them. Fucking date rapists, drunk girls at a party—it was consensual, roofie wielding, entitlement tallying higher than their trust funds. I didn’t trust a single one of them. I grabbed Locke’s Jaeg and took a swig, swallowed, then spat on the floor.
“Just gonna break that aquiline nose that runs in his family. Back me the fuck up, Locke.”
“Wyatt, it’s a party. Just grab her and go—” Locke tried to tell me, but I was already halfway across the floor.
Adrenaline raced through my blood and my temple throbbed louder than the music shaking the foreclosed house. I shoved away the grinding bodies and single-mindedly focused on the pretty boy, Harley, and the drink that went from his hand to her mouth.
“Wyatt!” she screamed when she saw me. I knocked the drink out of her hand and it went all over Gianna.
"Get the fuck off her," I said to the guy. In one movement, I put Harley behind me and stuck my face in his.
“What’s it to you?” he whined. He was used to getting his way.
"Let's go," I said to Harley. I grabbed her arm and dragged her halfway across the room.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going," the big dude said, “I came to this party with Harley.” He grabbed my shoulder in a sad attempt to turn me around. He might have been big, but I was murderous and he was just my type. I peeled his hand off me and turned to face him.
“I don’t care if you came with your dick. Doesn’t mean you get to leave with it,” I gritted in his face. He paled slightly but also balled his fists like he might actually attempt to fight me.
“Wyatt, let’s just go,” Harley said suddenly, seeming to sober up when faced with the threat of violence.
Most of the trust fund kids in East Point knew me by name, they knew what I was capable of. They wouldn't dare step to me, but this guy I'd never seen before. He grabbed Harley’s upper arm hard; it looked like it hurt.
“Fuck him, Har, we were gonna get drunk and have some fun.”
"Take your hands off of her," I said calmly. When he didn't, I grabbed his and twisted until I heard a crack. Bye bye, crew, bye tennis, bye archery and maybe even fucking swimming. The pretty boy paled and then promptly doubled over and vomited from the pain. He fell to the floor cradling his arm like a toddler with tears streaming down his face.