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“You did it on purpose, didn't you, you little bitch.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Don't play fucking games!”

“I just figured you'd be fine. Alemo isn't a big guy. Sorry he kicked your ass,babe.”

Dezmond's lip goes flush against his gums—I see cuts inside his mouth, probably from the fight. His hands jerk forward for my throat. He's seriously going to choke me. At the last second, he stops himself; I don't know why, because I'm busy looking at something else. Something far more important.

A solution.

Behind Dez's shoulder is the street. It stretches into the distance, and I can see the lone car speeding towards us. It's another last-minute parade delivery. With the road clear, the driver is gunning it. They're going faster than the law allows but no one is going to stop them. We all know not to cross the blockades.

Dezmond begins to mouth something. I don't try and figure out what he's saying. I shove my whole torso against his, sending him sprawling into the street, into the path of the car, I have the delirious thought I won't have to think aboutanythinghe says ever again.

Someone screams. The car horn bellows so loudly it hurts my ears; I cover them, cringing, but my attention never leaves Dez. Movement explodes around me, people rushing forward into the street, the car screeching to a halt as it spins out. A huge shadow douses me for a moment. Then it passes.A cloud?I wonder, until I see what it really is.

Now I know what Dez was mouthing before I pushed him.

Dad.

Jordan doesn't glance at me, he runs into the road, weaving through the mass of people. I can't breathe. I can't move from the spot.Did he see what I did?

The driver jumps out of the car, shouting, “Holy shit! Is he okay! Did I hit him?”

My entire head is pounding; I watch with rising terror as the sea of people forms a circle around him. I haven't blinked in far too long, my eyes are itching. I keep them open. The crowd shifts until I can see in the street. I'm expecting a puddle of blood, a broken body, my stomach queasy as I see it vividly in my mind.

Dezmond stands with the help of his father and some bystanders. He cradles his forehead, runs fingers over his chest, arms, looking for injuries. There are none. He's scratch free.

He looks directly at me. No one else is, not yet, but I know I must act before this goes too far. “I'm so sorry!” I shout, sprinting towards Dez and Jordan. They both stare at me as I demand all the attention from the fear in my voice. “We were having an argument and it got super heated!” I insist, shaking my head violently. “I'm so glad you're okay, Dez! I'm really, really sorry!”

Jordan speaks first. “It's okay, Lorikeet. I saw everything.”

My blood runs cold. “You did?”

He nods, then gives Dezmond a gentle but firm pat. “Let's get out of the street, we're causing a commotion. Everyone go back to enjoying yourselves, no one is hurt.”

“Get off me,” Dez grumbles, wrenching away from his father. Side by side, I notice how different they are. Jordan is taller, broader, and blessed with a mature handsomeness. I can't visualize Dez growing into half the man he is. Not twenty years from now, not even thirty or more. Jordan is finely aged whiskey. Dezmond is prison-hooch.

It makes me wonder about his mother. Jordan's doesn't wear a ring … does that mean she divorced and ran off, or did she pass away? Dezmond must look more like her.

Jordan watches me with a somber frown. I manage to hold his stare. “You made it,” I say.

“Yes,” he replies.

We both go quiet—Dezmond arches an eyebrow, looking between us. “You can leave now, Jordan,” he says coldly. “Lori and I were in the middle of something.”

He calls his father by his first name?I'm shocked by his boldness.

“I wanted to bring that up, actually,” Jordan says. “The discussion you were having looked very intense.” He emphasizes the last word like he's hissing it. Dez goes a little paler. “I even imagined that you were about to put your hands on this girl. I'm wrong, of course, because you'd never do something like that.”

“Of course not,” Dez spits. He shoves his hands into his pockets like a bratty child. Then he looks at me. “Let's forget that whole thing, yeah? Don't want this beautiful day spoiled by a misunderstanding.”

I manage a plastic smile. “No one would ever want that.”

He brushes the bruise from the Drip Head brawl with Alemo, then he motions with his chin towards downtown. “Let's head this way.”

“Why?” Jordan asks, before I can. I stare at him, but he keeps watching his son.