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Oscar comes up on my other side, poking me with his elbow. “Same old stuff,” I tell him, having to shut my mouth before I drool. He’s wearing a tank top with overly large armholes. His tanned football chest muscles peek through the sides. He’s paired it with black athletic shorts that stop at his knees, showing off amazing calves.
“Just people trying to take you and kill you? That kind of thing?”
“You know it.”
“And spy on her,” Mag says, bringing the conversation around to Detective Reynolds and completely ruining the light mood.
“What?” Oscar snaps. The good humor that was on his face just evaporates.
“Let me get Brawler,” Mag says. He calls him over, having to yell his name several times before he catches his attention.
He lumbers over to us, and the strain in his body and face is apparent. I couldn’t comfort him enough yesterday. I couldn’t tell him everything was going to be okay as much as he needed. I hate that I couldn’t do that, and guilt lays over me.
“I have a feeling I’m about to eat my words,” Jax complains, looking between all of us. Lines form between his brows.
“Knock it off,” Finn chastises, pulling his shoulder-length hair around his ears. “They’re our friends.”
Brawler finally reaches us. “What’s up?”
I can’t keep my gaze off him. I want to go to him—hug him—but I can’t do any of that right now. Not with Jax and Finn here, and certainly not with Detective Reynolds spying on me. For all I know, he could be ogling us right now.
Mag launches into a spiel about what we witnessed on the car ride here, explaining why it’s a big deal though I think anyone with half a brain could figure it out. Everyone listens intently, Oscar cursing when he learns the news.
“So, you want to take back that invitation now?” I ask Jax. “I won’t be offended.”
“I’llbe offended,” Finn says, speaking up for me. “Nothing’s changed. The cops are trying to threaten you, and that doesn’t fly with us, does it, Jax?” His brother doesn’t respond, but Finn keeps going anyway. “We’ll continue like usual, only be more careful.” I admire his easygoing nature, and the lengths he’ll go to help me. He gives me a wicked grin. “Now, let’s hear it. Who are you fighting next?”
I lock gazes with Brawler, my tongue darting out to lick my lips. “Him.”
“Him?” Hesitantly, Jax and Finn follow my gaze, but return back to me. “Him, who?” Jax asks, gaze narrowed.
I shrug. “They’re putting me up against Brawler on Friday, and needless to say, both of us have to win for different reasons. We need a plan.”
Finn’s brows shoot up just shy of his hairline as he gawks between the both of us.
“A plan?” Jax asks, scoffing. “Two people can’t win the same fight. If that’s the case, you need a goddamn miracle.”
Yeah, that would help too. I wouldn’t turn one of those away, but I already know God doesn’t listen to me.
21
Brawler sits out during training. Hugging the sidelines like a spectator. Well, I guess what we’re doing is called training even though it isn’t hardcore training. I take it easy for the day, only hitting the pads with fifty percent force to make sure I don’t injure my hand. In between rounds, Jax insists on massaging my wrists and lower arms, his tattooed fingers working over my skin in sure movements.
We both sit on the bench just outside the ring as Oscar decides he’s going to get in with Finn and try to go toe-to-toe with him. It’s not that Oscar isn’t badass. He one hundred percent is. He just doesn’t have the training Finn has. Though, he does have the power, strength, and force necessary to be good, along with that straight-up brutality instinct he learned from growing up in the Heights. I watch the show as tension pours off Jax while he works his fingers over me. He doesn’t care for me very much. Well, maybe it’s not even that, but he definitely doesn’t like the affiliation I have with the Crew.
He shouldn’t like it, and I don’t blame him one bit.
I glance down, watching his hands. I have my arm lying lazily over my knee while he works, and since I’m this close, and his hands aren’t flying through the air at my face, I can finally see what’s tattooed on his knuckles over one hand. FREE.
“What’s that about?” I ask, nodding toward his tat.
He stiffens and turns his hands to the sides to hide his tattoos. “You ever heard of the expression nunya?”
My forehead crinkles. “Um, no...”
“Nunya business, Princess.”
I glare at his hard features. I guess that’s what I get for trying to be conversational.