Hard, ropey muscles barely concealed by his blazer, and long tapered fingers that’d curl around mine as he brought it to his lips, welcoming me to his family distillery for the tenth time because he kept forgetting we met before.
“Last but not least, the son of our chosen leader, Arsenio Creed.”
Arsenio Creed was the product of so many ethnicities, his features spanned the world. Light monolid eyes, dark freckles, wide nose, and a head of long, cork-brown curls that caught the sun as he moved, bathing them gold. I heard someone tried to pet him once and he twisted their wrist till it broke. I didn’t know if it was true. We were at the point that anything that went wrong around town, the Bedlam Boys were named for it.
“I only know him from the photos and video shots of him standing off to the side from Mayor Creed,” I admitted. “I’ve always wondered what she thought of her kid being one of the infamous Bedlam Boys.”
“I can answer that for you, she is in complete denial.” Paris slid my cream cheese over and slathered it on her bagel. “Arsenio puts the angels in the heavens to shame when he’s around his mom. ‘Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. I’ll be home in time for dinner.’
“He graduated salutatorian and class president. How could he be fucking around when he was busy being the perfect student? Whenever they were caught, our teachers let it slide. Would you want to be the one calling the mayor in for a teacher’s conference?” She heaved a sigh. “After years of the act, she refuses to believe anyone knows her son better than she does.”
“There is no beating a mother’s blind spot.”
“Tell me about it,” Paris mumbled. She wasn’t looking at Arsenio.
The shift in gaze forced me to follow, and then I was looking at him too. Cairo noticed us and nodded at his sister. Just a nod to acknowledge the person who rode around in the same womb that he did. He slid off me like my seat was empty, and turned to the final person in their group—the one who shot me a look of triumph as she perched on his lap.
“Who’s she?” I tried to ask casually, but being dismissed by the guy who kissed and had his hand down my pants less than twelve hours ago leaked temper in my voice. Without a doubt, I knew the rotted fruit didn’t fall far from the tree.
I didn’t want anything from Cairo Sharpe other than an apology, and his ass could mail it to me. But for him to throw me back, implying I was too easy for him, ten minutes after saying he dropped his pants for anyone with a vagina, stirred my unused confrontational side. I wouldn’t lose my patience with the chickens, but I yelled and threatened him. It never crossed my mind to hit Ivy the many times she tackled me like an NFL player, laughing her head off while I screeched for her to let me up. That didn’t stop me from punching Cairo. Something about this guy stirred all the wrong things in me, and if his friends were even worse, I’d have no trouble staying away.
“That’s Quinn Cunningham. She’s their latest shared toy.”
“What does that—?”
The sentence wasn’t out of my mouth before she tugged Legend by the collar and planted a searing kiss on him—in full view of the guy she wanted to claw my eyes out over. Cairo didn’t even blink at them.
“Ah, I get it,” I said. “No need to explain.”
She snorted. “If you get it, explain it to me. Girls, and guys, are so desperate to be in their orbit, they’re happy to put their ass on tap if it means walking beside them in the halls. I mean, no one else can use a mother’s blind spot as an excuse.”
I suddenly didn’t want to talk about Cairo or his friends anymore. “You know what they say, there’s something about a bad boy. Thanks for breakfast, Paris.” I got to my feet. “I’ve got to take care of something before class. Meet up later?”
“Sure. See ya.”
I headed inside, pointedly looking anywhere other than Quinn’s shit-eating smirk. Keep him, Cunningham. He’s all yours.
An arm snaked around my waist. I snapped up, looking up into Cairo’s eerie eyes.
“What the hell do you want? Get your hands off—”
“Be quiet.” The sharp order silenced me and the couple walking past us. They picked up speed getting away. “That stuff you said about my father. What did you mean?”
I stared at him, watching his expression darken.
“Did you not hear me?”
“I’m confused,” I said. “I thought you wanted me to be quiet.”
His hand burned an imprint on my hip. I tried to push him off and he dug in.
“Why do you have my father’s name in your mouth?”