And I officially stop giving a fuck about Tuck’s warning.
I snatch my keys from the ignition, and fly out of my car. I sprint to where she stands and, leaning into the window space, surprise them both when I jam my too-large body into the small opening, I slam my fist against his jaw in a fast one-two pump that jacks his face back, and his head smacks against the opposite window. I grab the hand that remains around Maddi’s wrist, wrench his thumb back until it pops and he screams, then I pull her out and place her behind me while I wait.
I wait for him. I keep one hand on her hip to hold her back, an eye on our suddenly watchful audience, and when his door opens, I hold her extra tight because I feel like she’s going to run to him and beat him to shit for hurting her.
Or, worse, she’ll run to him and tend to his fucked-up face.
“Bryan,” she hisses among the shouted cheers for a fight. “Stop it, right now.”
“Nope.” I adjust our angle when he comes around the back of his car and to the side we stand on. Blood pours from his bent nose, it dribbles over his chin, and drops to his chest and designer shirt. “Stay put,” I warn her. “Don’t you dare step out.”
“Bryan!” she shouts. “You need to stop it.”
“I said no.”
I have barely enough pockets in my brain to compartmentalize everything happening around me. Madilyn, the rowdy crowd, the cars, and Tuck’s race. The darkness, the roaring engines, the shouting onlookers. It’s sensory overload, but I’ve trained my whole fucking life not to punk out just because something seems hard.
I keep an eye on the people closest to us, to make sure none get it in their head to snatch Maddi away while my back is turned. But I also watch Jackson, the way he positions his feet, his hands. He covers his face with balled fists, lifts his shoulders the way everyone in my gym does as they step up to fight.
“Madilyn!” His voice is nasally, whiny, as he points to his shoes. “Come here.”
“She ain’t a fuckin’ dog, Price. That was your second mistake. The first was grabbing her arm and hurting her.”
“Fuck you, trash!” Blood spurts to the ground between us. “Madilyn. Come here!”
“Bryan.” She tries to step around me. “You need to stop.”
“You are stupid if you think I’m letting you walk your ass over there.” I yank her back, and become no better than him.
That dilemma hurts me. Because I’m not supposed to order her around. I’m not supposed to do shit.
I look to Jackson. “Come at me, Price.”
On my right, Tuck sprints through the crowd. He bowls people over with his momentum, and when he emerges into the small clearing, he catches Maddi when I toss her at him.
“Let’s go, Price. Fight me for her, motherfucker. You suck on the track. You suck in a fight. But who knows, maybe risking something a little more valuable will get you moving faster.”
“Bryan!” Maddi shouts. “I’m not a car. I’m not a dog. I’m not a fucking thing that you can bet.”
I look into Jackson’s eyes and smile. “You scared she’ll see you can’t protect her? That’s our job, ain’t it? We gotta hunt, we gotta provide, and we gotta protect. That’s three strikes, pussy. Bet you can’t fuck, either.”
He runs at me with a battle cry. He announces his moves, screeches his hatred, and because he’s such a shitty fucking fighter, he barely notices the way I step to my left.
Instead of jumping out of the way, I swing back in and slam my knee up to rearrange his ribs. With a fist to the back of his head, I throw him to the ground and spin as he lands with a painful exhalation. I follow him straight down, and take guard with a sneaky elbow to his cheekbone as I go. I slam my fist over his jaw. One, two, three, with more venom than I should for an unsanctioned fight.
In a tournament, I’m allowed to hit until they’re unconscious, or the buzzer sounds.
Here, I’m gonna go to prison if I take it too far.
Some spectators scream their support, others take it upon themselves to start brawling too.
But Jackson’s not a complete eunuch.
He bridges high, shoves me forward so I’m forced to use my hands to catch my weight or risk plowing face first into the dirt, then he flips us and swaps our positions. His fists rain down over my jaw – he’s been trained too.
The difference is, I was born for this.
I push his arms out of the way. I eat a couple jabs, and shove his arms to the side until he loses his balance, then I roll to my left and scissor up until he thumps to his back.
“Stop it!” Maddi’s voice is a screech. She’s the cliché screaming chick at a fight as she tries to wade closer – Where the fuck is Tuck? – and risks a fist to the face for her troubles.
Jackson and I grapple, we roll on the dirt, and grunt each time one of us gets a shot in. My hat flips off with a loud thump, and the blood from his face transfers to my fists.
“You don’t boss women around!” I hit him. Time and time again, I smash my fist over his jaw and revel in the way he bleeds. “You don’t hurt women! You don’t speak to them like shit!” I push up off his lap, only to drop down again and dig my knee into his gut.
“Bryan!” Maddi cries. “Stop it.” She tries to grab my arms, tries to pull me away, but I shove her back and use the wind-up to slam a fist against Jackson’s jaw. “Bry!”
“Bryan.” Tucker’s voice roars through the buzzing of the crowd. Instead of begging me to stop, he runs at us and crashes into my side with a heavy thud. He knocks me off Jackson, and sends me rolling six feet to the right.
My body knows how to correct course. It knows to flip to my feet and prepare to run in again, but all I see is Maddi on the ground, scuffed jeans with holes on her knees. She sits back now with her hands resting behind her, her chest heaving, and her eyes… tear-filled.
“Aw, shit.”
“Go to her!” Tuck stands between me and Price, and when Jackson tries to use my distraction to run at me, Tuck only spins and slams him back to the ground. He drops a knee to the middle of Jackson’s chest, and a hand to his throat. Then he looks to me and snaps, “Go, Bry! Now.”
“Cops!”
The alarm goes up a mere second before the sound of sirens fill the air. Fighters, racers, cheer girls and the like, our crowd scrambles as red and blue lights fill the dark sky.
Five hundred people scatter like bugs.
I sprint to Maddi, and scoop her up from the ground with an easy swing. She cries out from my rough hands, but adrenaline carries me, and masks how much strength I’m using when I touch her.
I set her on her feet, and wrap my arm around her hips. Then I run. I force her to sprint to keep up.
Straight to my car, I shove her into the passenger seat without a care for how rough I’m being. One, two, three cop cars rush toward our crowd, and skid on the dirt.
And maybe I know who the cops are. I know who their families are. But I will never admit to them or anyone else that I was here.
I slam Maddi’s door shut and dart around to my side. Sliding in, I shove the keys into the ignition and switch the Camaro on. Clutch down, first gear, I release the pedal and ignore Maddi’s scream when we take off with a roar.