Pretty Little Savage (Sick Boys #1) - Lucy Smoke Page 0,42

back down. But I'm not. I'm tougher than that.

"Do you really want to try me?" I ask.

He leans back, eyeing me, and I'm sure I've won—that is, until the right side of his mouth twitches and what comes out from between his lips is a very smug, "Brax."

Before I even realize what's happening, big, massive paws are gripping my sides and pulling me backwards. My spine slams into the seat and a hard, muscled arm as thick as one of my thighs comes across my front, gripping the seatbelt and strapping me into place. Rage boils up.

"Big. Fucking. Mistake," I say, just before I rear back and punch Brax right in the face as he hovers in front of me, still clipping the end of my seatbelt into place. And holy shit, his face is made of rock. I clench my teeth as pain radiates from my knuckles, but I don't show it. He stops, blinking as if he can't believe I just did that—but fuck yeah, I did. "Let me go," I snap, struggling in his grip.

Brax shakes his head and finally looks up at me. He doesn't even look mad about the punch. "Settle down, li’l psycho," he says, patting the top of my head. "We're just dropping you off."

"You're what?" I stop struggling and stare at the back of his head. "Oh. Well, then. Why didn't you say so?" I catch Abel's glance in the rearview mirror.

"I can't believe you Molotov-cocktailed her car," he says with a snicker.

I shrug and relax more fully into the seat. Now that I know they're taking me exactly where I wanna go, I'm good. "It was dangerous," Brax agrees. "Had you hit closer to the gas tank and had she not been smart enough to grab the hose, the car would've gone up in flames."

"She had it coming," I say, unconcerned.

"Oh?" Brax leans forward and turns towards me. "How so?"

"She disrespected me."

There's a beat of silence in the car and then both Abel and Brax burst out laughing. I smile as I listen to the two of them. The only one who remains silent is Dean. And soon, as their chuckles taper off, he turns in his seat to look back at me.

"I don't care what you did," he says, "but you need to get one thing straight."

"Oh?" I tilt my head and grin. "And what would that be, D-man?"

He scowls at the nickname and just knowing that it irritates him only ensures I'm going to be using it every time I see him from now on. A charged feeling—an electric current—slides through the space between him and me.

"You need to keep stunts like that to a minimum," he says. "In fact, you need to erase the desire to commit them completely unless we order it."

An indelicate snort leaves my lips. "Okay, sure." The sarcasm is so heavy I can taste the sour tang on my tongue.

His scowl deepens. "You think I'm fucking playing with you?" he asks.

I shrug. "Doesn't matter if you are or not," I reply honestly. "If you think you can control someone like me, you've got another thing coming."

He arches a brow. "Really?" Dean turns, leaning forward and pops open the glove compartment in front of him. I lean to the side and my eyes widen when I spot the familiar handle of a gun amidst a bunch of papers and other shit. My heart rate kicks up and I put my hand to the clip, my fight mode kicked into high drive. Another hand lands on mine, stopping me, and I jerk my head up and glare as Brax shakes his head.

Dean doesn't even touch the gun. He grabs a manila envelope beneath it and pries it loose before snapping the compartment closed. It takes a moment, but when he turns back and notices Brax's hand on mine, earning both of us a wicked glare, I start to relax.

"What's that?" I ask as Dean opens the envelope and starts removing papers. He flicks through them without looking up.

"Would you like to know?" he asks.

I roll my eyes. "No, I asked just for shits and giggles," I say snidely.

"They're a work up on you, little miss Ava," he replies, ignoring my comment.

"What?"

"Avalon Marie Manning. Born October 3rd. Eighteen years old. From Plexton, Georgia. No known father. Mother Patricia Manning. Arrested twice, once for shoplifting and another for possession of drugs."

I roll my eyes. "Weed's not really a drug," I say.

He shrugs absently, thumbing through another page. "Not