It’s empowering to hear him say that. “I won’t.”
“Also?” his fingers graze the back of my thighs, mouth moving close to my ear. “Keep wearing these skirts. They’re making me crazy, in a very, very good way.”
I shiver at the feel of his breath against the shell of my ear. “Oh, I know.”
His expression morphs, from sexy and in-control, to stunned. Suddenly, I’m less regretful about this outfit.
We arrive at a clearing, the grass tamped down. The foundation of an old building marks the ring, a large, open expanse of concrete framed by a low retaining wall. We find the others staked out close to the edge, sipping beer and huddled together. Talking. Laughing. I sidle up to the group and Reyn takes his place beside me, propping his elbows on the wall. Unlike me, he looks totally in his element here, the line of his long, lean body curved almost lazily. I notice the other people—the non-Preston people—eying him.
Carlton offers him a beer, but he shakes his head. “I’m driving.”
Carlton shrugs at this and pops the top to drink it himself.
I confess, “I’ve never seen two guys really fight before,” and Reyn turns to look at me. “I mean, on TV, sure. But not in real life.” Even when we were younger, back when they’d get into scraps with the other neighborhood boys, Emory would send me away before anything physical happened.
“I’ve never been to one of these,” Reyn says, nodding into the ‘ring’. “But it’s all the same, probably. Testosterone overload. Posturing. A bunch of circling. Only like three actual blows before someone comes to break it up.”
Elana adds, “And they take off their shirts.”
“Yeah, what’s with that, anyway?” Georgia asks, squinting into the distance. “Have you noticed that guys always start undressing when they fight?”
Reyn gives her a blank look. “It’s so the other guy will have less to grab onto.”
“Yeah,” Ben adds, “you want to be uncatchable.”
“Sweaty and slippery,” Afton laughs.
Emory leans over the wall, clearly having heard the debate. “It’s like when girls fight. They always put their hair up and take out their earrings.”
“I don’t know.” Georgia shrugs. “Seems kind of sexy to me.” She looks instantly embarrassed about voicing this though, face going pink.
Aubrey raises her beer in agreement. “Hell yeah, it is!” Elana bumps the necks of their bottles together in solidarity.
“Well, well, well,” comes a voice from behind us. We all turn in tandem to see Heston Wilcox ambling up to our little group, tall and handsome, cigarette between his fingers. “All the degenerates are here, I see.” He and his brother favor one another, sort of. They both have strong, striking features. But where Heston oozes privilege, Sebastian gives off a darker, more frenetic vibe.
Elana makes a disgusted sound. “If you’re here, I know that’s true.”
“Just coming to watch my little bro besmirch our fine family name.”
Emory snorts. “I think you do that enough for the both of you.”
Heston doesn’t seem bothered by this, running his gaze over all of us. “This is a weird little group. Aren’t you that mathlete nerd?” Caroline flicks a pigtail over her shoulder and ignores him, but he’s already moved on. “Shackleford. Wade. Riggins. Holt shit.” His eyes stutter when they reach Reyn. “Sticky-fingers McAllister? I thought you were in prison or something.”
Reyn gives him a look that’s dripping with disdain. “Military school.”
Heston lets the chill of Reyn’s voice pass without mention. “Didn’t realize they’d released you back into society.”
“How’s college?” Afton asks pointedly, and I use the veil of my hair to hide a grin. It really is pretty pathetic of him, still hanging around the high school crowd.
“Good,” he says a little stiffly. If anyone thought Heston would suffer real consequences for what he’d done, they didn’t understand the power of his family. He pulls out a notebook and a bag, and asks, “Okay, who’s putting money down? The bets so far are on first blood, KO, and winner. Street fight rules, first one down loses.”
“You’re the one taking bets?” Ben asks, looking about as uncomfortable as I feel. It seems like Heston isn’t just taking bets. It seems like he’s the one organizing it.
“Yep.” Heston taps the notebook. “Personally, I’ve got three grand on the Northridge kid to win, but a grand on Bass drawing first blood. Kid’s all temper, no strategy.”
Emory gapes at him. “You’re betting against your own brother?”
Heston shrugs. “Why not?”