He chuckles, his shoulders lax, elbow loosely pressed against the banister on his left.
He seems calm, content, and my lips begin to curve at the sight, but then his eyes lift to mine.
His body goes pencil-straight, an instant frown forming, one that grows deeper as he looks to the guys at my side.
We’re in front of him in the next second, and Arsen grips his shirt, attempting to tug him, but Ransom grabs his wrists to keep them both there.
Freddy must understand their dynamics because he carries himself into the room without a word.
“What?” Ransom growls, his eyes on Arsen.
Beretta closes off our little square, and I can’t help but notice the way both his and Arsen’s stances widen, as if they’re preparing for something, I’m unaware of, that’s on the way.
“We need to go,” Beretta says calmer than expected.
But the way Ransom’s eyes narrow and the slight cock of his head lets me know there is a reason.
Beretta drops his chin. “Your brother’s here.”
My eyes snap his way, quickly shifting back to Ransom.
The sharp, always confident curves of his face, fall flat, and my brows meet in the center.
With a single blink, his expression flips.
Ransom jerks himself free, darting for the entrance, but Arsen grips the back of his shirt, yanking him so hard the thin cotton shreds, Ransom’s steps strong and firm. But Arsen jerks forward, grabbing Ransom by the shoulder, and before Ransom can shove him off, Beretta is bumping him in the chest, locking his arms around Ransom’s torso and it takes both of them to tear the angry boy back.
The three slam into the wall, shoving him repeatedly to keep him there.
I watch them, wide-eyed, and Ransom tries to throw them aside, but then Arsen’s forearm shoots up, pushing into Ransom’s neck, pinning him as hard as he can against the wall, Beretta right there adding force with his palms against his bicep.
“Stop, man,” Beretta hisses.
“Fuck him, is he for real? He’s here, as if he hasn’t run through enough already?” he spits, his lip curled and body heaving. “He needs his ass handed to him.”
“Yeah, and you’re the one for the job, but not like this. There’s no hiding, and he’ll fuck you”. Beretta is seething, right in his face. “That what you want? One wrong move, man, and it’s over.”
Curiosity is the only excuse I have for my forward steps.
“You’re better than him,” I hear Beretta say. “Fuck. Him.”
My fingers curl around the cheap velvety material. I glide it over, and my nostrils are stung by a heavy cloud of oak and mint as the shoulder of two men slowly come into view beyond the silky smoke.
I vaguely hear someone say it’s time to go.
I pull farther but am halted by a steely grip to my wrist, forcing me to release the thick curtain before I manage to move it a full inch.
My gaze locks with Ransom’s, and my lungs squeeze.
He’s the picture of rage. His forehead is strained with firm lines, his jaw thrust forward and clenched tightly.
His teeth are clamped shut, his grip tight and trembling. I should yank from his hold, but staring into his marble-like eyes, I can’t.
There’s something within them, a contrast of his expression, of his words and the tone in which he delivered them. This is deeper. This isn’t about anger.
So, I nod, and walk backward, my fingers gently latching on to his wrist as he still holds mine.
He walks with me, and after a few steps, we’re shifted, facing forward and stepping back onto the main floor.
Without another word, and with strong, confident strides, we leave the way we came, climb inside the car, and roll out into the night.
Ten, maybe fifteen minutes go by, before the tension begins to subside and Arsen, now in the driver’s seat, turns the music on low.
I seek out Ransom in the side mirror, finding his eyes closed tight, head dropped back on the seat.
He seems tortured, at a loss.
Defeated.
“Where to, my man?” Beretta asks, but nobody answers.
Ransom makes no move at all, while Arsen looks toward the clock, a low sigh following.
Beretta pulls his phone out, but quickly locks it, glancing out at the night with a tight drawn frown and low fought groan.
I flick my gaze over them once more and something stirs beneath my ribs.
The time on the stereo reads two in the morning, and I get the feeling they either don’t want to go home... or they can’t.
We were about to start the night all over again, likely ring in the sunrise behind those doors, but the fresh energy we went in with converted to a heavy weight with our exit.
“Go to my house,” I say, focused on the road ahead.
No one speaks the entire drive there, not even when Arsen pulls up to the curb in front of the walkway leading to my front door.
I unbuckle, grabbing my purse from the floorboard, and push the door open, stepping out onto the sidewalk.
I turn back, my eyes moving along the three, all staring right at me, and I raise my brows.
“Well...” I draw out. “Are you coming?”
There’s a slight pause, a slow beat of silence, and then all at once, they’re at my side.
We head inside my house.
“Game two, boy!” Beretta claps, high-fiving himself and bumps a shoulder into Arsen, who laughs beside him.
Shaking my head, I set my glass of water in the sink and grab my blanket off the couch, joining Ransom on the balcony.
He holds a vape pen to his lips, and this time, when he blindly passes it my way, I accept.
As I inhale, his eyes slide my way, but only for a second.
We stand there, looking out at the night for a few minutes, nothing but the ocean in front of us.
I spin, leaning my back against the glass and look at him.
“Don’t.” His forewarning is quiet and ignored.
His command could mean anything. It could be his way of telling me not to ask questions about what happened tonight, or it could be related to the last time he was here. It’s probably his way for covering both, but we finally have a minute, so I take it.
“You had no reason to help me out with my car, but you did.”
He frowns, looking straight ahead. “I said don’t.”
“And I don’t care. I would have thanked you sooner had you been around, but you guys were never down the road when I tried, and apparently, school is low on your guys’ list.”
He scoffs, looking away. “Like B said, our lungs had to heal. Claim jobs make for a lot of smoke, and we couldn’t exactly light it and leave it.” His blue eyes find mine. “We had to make sure it was nothing but the frame when it was done.”
I stare a moment. “The cop had said it looked like it was gutted.”
He nods, a bit of a bite in his tone as he shares, “Sold the system to a guy in Irvine. Sold the gym bag in the trunk to a chick in Fountain Valley.” His gaze tightens the slightest bit, as if he’s looking for a reaction.
As if I’ll be upset over the Saint Laurent my mother spent a small fortune on when she insisted my workouts go from three days a week to five.
Keep it tight and he’ll still come home at night—laws of a loveless marriage.
“Well” —I look out at the water behind me, then back to him— “I hope you got a fraction of its worth.”