“My type, huh?” he bites with blatant aggravation. “How you figure?”
“I mean… you’re basically wearing the same pants, so,” I joke. “Peas in a pod, Tweedledee and Tweedledum... Cheech and Chong?”
That does it, takes him off defense mode, and the corner of his mouth lifts with his sudden and unexpected laugh.
It’s not brash and boisterous, but a laugh just loud enough to stir the birds in the trees surrounding us.
It’s throat-deep and jagged, yet somehow still a lively and free sound, one that has me smiling, but the moment my lips curl to their fullest, his expression goes slack.
In a single inhale, the guy at my back morphs, now the bearer of the finest worn mask at the nonexistent masquerade he’s forced himself into.
A fake in the flesh.
Or maybe fake isn’t fair, but regardless, he chose to censor himself.
I don’t need any more of the type around me, those closed off and prone to hiding.
All anyone ever does is hide things from me.
“You can let go of me now,” I tell him.
He cocks his head, bottomless, dark eyes piercing mine through a mass of black lashes.
Something in my gut stirs, and I want to look away, but don’t.
So I try again to get him to be the one to step back, since it seems I’m glued in place.
“Pretty sure I’m no longer falling.”
“Who said I grabbed you ‘cause you were falling?” His grip tightens, his body shifting closer and closer, and leaving no room to twist, no air to breathe that isn’t infused with his very scent—weed and wonder. Wind and water.
I frown, blocking out the refreshing aroma, not understanding what he’s getting at, and that’s when the squeal of old brakes rings in my ears.
My head jerks toward the street to find the little white car that left him behind, the driver launching himself out of it the second it’s in park. He rushes around the vehicle, yanking the back door open as he canvases the area around us.
I don’t have to do the same to know this block is quiet and empty this time of morning.
A sliver of panic zips through me, tingling my spine and lodging my breath deep in my throat.
Royce dips down, swiping my legs from beneath me, my body now cradled in his arms, so I quickly latch on in case he decides to try and toss me around.
Before I can wrap my head around what’s happening, before I can process any of it, we’re stepping from the grass onto the street and sliding into the back seat. The door’s slammed behind us, and suddenly we’re moving.
This is definitely when I should snap out of my shock and scream, kick and fight, and go full Karate Kid on his ass, but all I can think of is oh.
My.
Shit.
A Brayshaw just kidnapped me.
And I straight-up let him.
Chapter 2
Royce
Well, this didn’t go as planned.
I came here to find Brielle Bishop, but ended up letting her cousin stick my junk down her throat, and not well either.
Technically, that shit’s not my fault—the girls played me, but I’m the dumbass who fell into it.
I showed up, mind dead set on a specific type, a girl hard enough to be the sister of the bastard who earned the top spot in my family’s dirty deeds quicker than any before him. A girl with edge and grit, dirt under her nails and a chip on her shoulder.
So yeah, I thought Brielle was the rough, tough, jaded looking one of the two I found myself in front of, not the tiny, tired little thing who can’t even prop against a window without twisting her fucking ankle.
I look to the girl, still sitting in my lap, not fighting me, not wide-eyed and worried, not pissed off and punching. She should be doing one of those things.
She’s not.
She’s calm and cool, and it’s pissing me off.
Maybe she’s not all there?
Right as I think it, her right hand lifts, and I’m pretty fuckin’ convinced I’m right, ‘cause that hand, it doesn’t come down to scratch or hit me.
Nah, the freshly snatched mini thing slips it between the seats in a dumbass move to introduce herself to the getaway man.
“I’m Brielle,” she says.
My boy Mac frowns from her to me, but when she nods her head, he lets out a low sigh.
With tight lips, he brings a hand around to shake hers. “Mac.”