“I could get it started, if not.” He sets the knife down with careful, precise movements, then lays his cloth napkin on top. Pushing to his feet, he comes around the table and extends a hand. “Come with me, Ally. The storm is only getting worse, so it’s probably best if we get back to our hotel now.”
“What about my car?” I take his hand, and sway on my way up. I’m not, like, sloshy drunk, but rather, exceptionally smiley, rubbery bones drunk. The best kind. “I can’t drive.”
“Leave it here,” he answers easily. “You can ride in my truck, then tomorrow, I’ll bring you back to get it.”
Luke
There’s That Kick in the Nuts
The storm is feral and mean, ice falls to the ground and makes the earth slick and slippery. It’s not like snow, it’s not gentle or soft, not graceful or wonderous. It’s fucking ice, sleeting and painful, and each time the wind picks up, it rocks the truck so much that Rob grunts his frustration as he tries to drive.
While we head from the apartment to the restaurant, I search in the gap between the seat and the back of the cab for a spare hoodie, and when I find it, I plop it over Emma’s head. None of us are wearing enough clothes for this bullshit, but she’s the one who needs protecting.
Her mom and our mom are best friends. We were raised to take care of the Kincaid girls, even if most of them are older than us. And despite the rage and worry that courses through my blood, my brain still computes enough to know how fucking cold it is outside, and that any spare hoodie we have automatically goes to Em.
Funnily enough, she’s so conditioned for that behavior, she merely lifts her hands and lets me dress her. Zero hesitation, zero confusion.
“Stay in the truck.” I’m not sure who I speak to, who I’m trying to save from jailtime. But as Rob brings the truck around the last corner before the restaurant, carefully, so we don’t slide around and end up in the wrong lane, Pinocchio’s comes into view, and my heart seizes. Her car is in the lot. Her fucking car is in the lot.
“Stay in the fucking truck,” I repeat and rest my hand on the door handle. In my mind, I count it down. Ten seconds until launch. Nine. Eight.
Just ahead of us, a fancy white Mercedes pulls in – slowly, so it takes me only a second to realize that’s probably Miranda – then the restaurant door opens, and out they walk. Ally and fucking Jason, side by side. Jason slings his arm over Ally’s shoulders and pulls her in tight so her face rests on his chest.
And my brain explodes.
“Cool it,” Emma starts. She even grabs my sleeve for just a second, but then Ally trips and falls to the concrete – or maybe Jason tosses her down. Fuck knows, but he follows her down, and I explode from my truck like the Hulk.
The door groans on its hinges so loudly that I’m certain I bent the steel. Icy cold wind slaps me in the face and makes my eyes water, but I run against the battering sleet anyway. Head down, arms pumping, chest heaving, I sprint away from the truck, past the Merc, where the occupant is yet to open the door, and over the graveled space leading to the restaurant.
With a roar of rage, I dive at the couple on the ground, straight over Ally, who lays with her eyes closed and her hair turning darker from the ice melting into it. I slam into Jason’s solid body, more muscle beneath his dress shirts than it looks, and send us both sprawling until the back of his head cracks against the ground with a solid thump that makes my stomach swirl.
These are the situations our parents warned us about. Fighting outside the gym, full of rage and recklessness; one wrong hit, one wrong landing, and a man will die, and we’re going away for life.
But I catch sight of Ally laid out on the ground, coming to, and groaning when she presses a finger to her bleeding temple, then I turn back to Jason and snarl. I scramble into mount, sit on his hips, and swing at his face until blood explodes onto the ground the way blood might splatter in a cheap horror movie.
His nose caves in, blood pours free and coats my hands, and like some strange, horrible detail that must be mentioned, the strings from my hoodie dangle in the blood, and draw lines over Jason’s fancy shirt.
“I told you to stay the fuck away!” I hit again, and again, and again. “I fucking warned you.” And again.
I’ve got the element of surprise on my side, and a shattered nose to distract him with. Behind me, Miranda skids down beside her daughter, and with them, Emma comes to help. But Rob… he saw Ally fall. He saw Jason trying to lead her someplace else. So he ain’t all that inclined to stop me or my fists.
“I fucking warned you, asshole!”
“Luke, no.” Ally’s voice is cracked and pain-filled. Barely a whisper above the growl of the wind. “Luke!”
“I fucking warned you to stop coming near her!” I slam my fist down on his jaw again, and when he finally collects his senses and bridges up to fight back, I bounce before he can flip us.
I bound to my feet, agile and ready, and when he comes up, faster and smoother than I would have expected he could manage, I race forward and slam my shoulder into his gut so that we tumble to the ground again. He’s a solid motherfucker under those fancy suit outfits; his stomach ain’t soft beneath my shoulder, but I’m younger, trained, and fucking pissed. So when we slam to the ground, I scramble to be on top again, and when he tries to escape, I clip him on the jaw, and thrill when he’s stunned.
“Luke!” Ally shakily climbs to her feet in my peripherals. “You have to stop.”
“Rob!” I only have to say his name one time, one order, for him to grab her before she comes too close and ends up with damage from my elbow.
“No!” Ally’s shouts turn more and more pointed, so when Rob grabs her, she’s firmly awake after her trip to the ground, and now she’s enraged. “Luke! I said stop!”
“Jerry?” Miranda’s voice cuts through the noise, through Ally’s kicking legs as Rob carries her away, and over the roaring wind. “Oh my god, Jerry. Is that you?” She approaches us on her hands and knees while tears track over her cheeks.
I continue to hit Jason. I slam fist after fist against his face, and he takes it. But my hands slow when Miranda comes closer. Rob is busy with Ally, and I’ll be damned if I accidentally hit the mother of the woman I want to marry.
“Jerry?” She says it again, shakily, and then stopping beside my thigh, her knee touching Jason’s ribs, a sob tears along her throat. “Oh my god.”
Like she’s made of electricity, Miranda shoves me to the side and fusses with Jason’s face. The blood, the broken bone. He has to turn halfway to the side to spit out blood or risk choking on it, so she helps him roll, and presses a hand to his shoulder while he spits and coughs.
“Oh my god,” she cries out. Silent tears turn to wracking sobs. “Jerry?”
“Maria.” Smiling past bloody teeth, the guy rolls into her side and rests a hand on her thigh. But he smiles.
And then he sleeps.
“Luke!” Ally escapes Rob’s hold, and dashes over to skid down beside us.
Except she’s not coming to me. She’s not coming to see if I’m okay.
She runs to the dude and fusses over him. Amidst the rumble of the storm, the wail of sirens, the blue and red flashes of light that play against lightning shooting from the sky, an ambulance races in our direction.