distant shout shatters our stare. “Are you two coming?” We both turn to the sound. He’s waving a hand in the air, suspending it there in the universal gesture for ‘what gives?’
Reyn takes in a slow breath, muttering, “Fuck, I thought people keeping tabs on me was bad. He has a gorgeous girl right there and he’s worrying about you.”
“Welcome to my world,” I reply with a smile. I can’t get mad. I’m here and he’s here. It’s not like I’m a big fan of PDA anyway. Yuck. I’ve had to sit through too much of that in my life with both Sydney and Emory.
I start down the hill, following the others who are already in a line at a makeshift entrance. Absurdly, there’s a fee to get in, ten dollars a head.
“Who gets the money?” I wonder.
Over his shoulder, Tyson says, “The winner, duh.”
“So basically, we’re giving this guy money, and it’s entirely possible that it’ll go to the person who kicks Sebastian’s ass. That doesn’t seem very supportive.” Not that a Wilcox of all people particularly need money.
Emory hands the burly guy a stack of twenties and points down the line of us. “These ten are with me.”
He nods and waves us past. The scene unfolds as we get closer. Lanterns light up the shells of old buildings that co-mingle with nature, roots and vines growing over the cement walls. Spray-paint covers everything, and I feel like I’ve entered a magical, secret world. It even smells different here, musty and astringent, kind of like gasoline and cigarette smoke. It’s also a bit crowded, which is the worst environment for someone with a leg like mine. When I was first hurt and having all the surgeries, people were really nice. I got free tickets to the Taylor Swift concert and the Atlanta United games, but I didn’t have to walk. I was still in a wheelchair back then. Here, I have to fight against the uneven terrain. With the dubious exception of Preston’s dining hall on pizza day, it’s been a long time since I’ve been to something with this kind of crowd, and I feel panic tightening in my chest. What happens if we need to get out of here quickly? What if someone gets pissed I’m taking too long?
From the tattoos and piercings and dyed hair, the whole group looks a little temperamental. These kids are not from Preston Prep. I doubt they’re even from Northridge. These are the kinds of kids who just go wherever they can find trouble.
I fight to take a breath and absently feel my pockets for a stray pill. I know I didn’t bring any, but maybe? I pat for back pockets that aren’t even there—this is a skirt, duh—and feel fingers hooking over my waistband. I look over my shoulder and Reyn is there, warm against my back. My anxiety instantly dissipates. I’m not here alone.
“Sorry I’m holding us up.”
He touches my hand. “Never apologize for that.”
It’s empowering to hear him say that. “I won’t.”
“Also?” his fingers graze the back of my thighs, mouth moving close to my ear. “Keep wearing these skirts. They’re making me crazy, in a very, very good way.”
I shiver at the feel of his breath against the shell of my ear. “Oh, I know.”
His expression morphs, from sexy and in-control, to stunned. Suddenly, I’m less regretful about this outfit.
We arrive at a clearing, the grass tamped down. The foundation of an old building marks the ring, a large, open expanse of concrete framed by a low retaining wall. We find the others staked out close to the edge, sipping beer and huddled together. Talking. Laughing. I sidle up to the group and Reyn takes his place beside me, propping his elbows on the wall. Unlike me, he looks totally in his element here, the line of his long, lean body curved almost lazily. I notice the other people—the non-Preston people—eying him.
Carlton offers him a beer, but he shakes his head. “I’m driving.”
Carlton shrugs at this and pops the top to drink it himself.
I confess, “I’ve never seen two guys really fight before,” and Reyn turns to look at me. “I mean, on TV, sure. But not in real life.” Even when we were younger, back when they’d get into scraps with the other neighborhood boys, Emory would send me away before anything physical happened.
“I’ve never been to one of these,” Reyn says, nodding into the ‘ring’. “But it’s all the same, probably. Testosterone overload. Posturing. A