“I went to this party with some friends at school and it’s just getting out of hand.”
“The party?” I ask, confused. Isn’t that the point of a party in high school? I’ve been out a few years.
“I-I’m at a party and I think…I don’t know. S-some of the boys are drunk and talking shit.”
I hear a voice in the background say, “What? The biker whore is too good to have a little fun with us now?”
The catcalls set me on fire. I know Dixie Rose, she’s not the type to get wasted and screw random civilians at some party. I’ve seen this happen too many times to the women connected with this club. “Fuck that bullshit. These little punks need to learn a lesson. You go lock yourself in a bathroom or a room and wait for me.”
“I-I don’t want to t-take you away from anything.”
“Stop arguing and do it.”
“O-okay,” she replies.
“Stay on the phone with me until you’re safe.”
The catcalls grow distant and I hold my breath. I have no clue where she is or how long it’ll take me to get to her, if something goes down. I hear a door slam. “You do what I told you?”
“Y-yes, I’m in the third bedroom on the top floor, last one on the right.”
“Good, now where are you?”
“Over at the Fleming’s place.”
I whistle. The Flemings are a wealthy family who have a habit of bailing their ill-mannered children out of trouble. “Damn, girl, you seeing how the other side lives, or you have friends in high places?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice shakes and she begins to pant.
“Hey, don’t pass out on me. Listen to my voice. I’m coming for you, girl. Leaving right now. By the time I’m done, no one else will be saying shit to you at school. I promise you that.” I clench the phone tight. “I’ll be there soon.” I hang up the phone and walk out of the clubhouse with murder on my mind. No one gets away with treating our girls like that, especially not Dixie Rose. I have an eternal guilt where she’s concerned after all my old man has pulled. I see a blameless girl, but he’s always seen the embodiment of evil. Like she’s some sort of brown-skinned Reagan from the movie The Exorcist. As I leave the clubhouse, I ignore the razzing of fellow prospects. My only focus is on reaching the terrified teen.
I make the thirty minute drive in fifteen, and back my bike up onto the sidewalk. Kids are spilling out onto the lawn, crowded onto the porch, and passed out in chairs and the porch swing. I guess that’s a plus to living out on so much land. No one’s going to file a noise complaint. Blue and Dixie Rose are usually attached at the hip, so I’m wondering why she choose this party of all places to get brave and independent. I shake my head. I’ve never been one to understand bitches.
The whispers start and sweep through the crowd like a wave. Heads turn.
I stare them down. That’s right, Kings are in the house. I dare you to say shit like you did to Dixie Rose. The crowd parts and I walk up the porch into the house. I spot the Fleming’s eldest and stare him down.
Blood rushes from his face, making his skin even paler. His red hair stands out like a beacon.
I know his type. Entitled asshole, who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. I know he had something to do with this. I stop in front of him. “When I come back, you and I are going to have a talk. You run, and I’ll find you. You don’t want me to have to chase you. It pisses me off.”
He gulps, and nods. His blue eyes dart from side to side.
“Please try me, Ralph. See, I’m pissed I had to stop what I was doing to come here and I’d appreciate an outlet for my anger.”
“I-I’ll be here,” he stammers. Just like most cowards, he changes his tune when someone his size confronts him and he folds like a lawn chair.
I turn on my heel and make my way up the staircase. After bulldozing through the line formed from the bathroom I stop in front of the bedroom door and pound on it with my fist. “Open up. It’s Echo.” A second later, the door opens and I step inside, scanning her with my gaze.
The once white dress is stained with some sort of drink, making it damn near see through against her sienna skin. Her nipples strain against the thin fabric. The dressed stops at her upper thighs and high heels accentuate her long legs.
My jaw drops before I can contain my reaction. “Dixie Rose, what the hell are you wearing?” I ask.
Her lower lip trembles, her chest heaves, and she bursts like a damn. Tears pour down her face, smearing her mascara, and tiny whimpers spill from her mouth.
Fuck, I broke her. I stare at her, unsure what to do. “Shit. I mean it looks good, or it did before the drink was spilled.”
Her sobs increase.