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This is my chance. I have to do this. I stand next to Johnny. “I’d be happy to fight.”
I should feel nervous as fuck because I have no idea who Fonz will choose to put me up against, but I’m also getting exactly what I wanted. I’m a fighter first. It’s in my blood. Plus, this is the way to get the leader of the Heights Crew to trust me. I know it.
“I think we should bet on someone we’ve seen fight more than once,” Oscar says. He’s avoiding my gaze now, but I know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to save me. “I say Brawler,” he says nonchalantly. “Rascal, even.”
“Rascal uses his strength,” Magnum says, speaking up for the first time. “He’s not skilled. He’s just big.”
“Iwantto fight,” I say again.
Johnny takes my arm, squeezing it hard to the point of pain. “Shut up,” he grits out.
Big Daddy glances at his hand on me, so I can’t do anything about it. I just stand there. “Obviously, I’ll go with whatever is decided,” I say, staring right at the most important person in the room. It’s up to Big Daddy K. He has the final decision in everything. “But know that if I’m chosen, I will win. I don’t care who I’m up against.”
Johnny squeezes harder. The bones in my wrist rub against one another.
“Thank you,” Big Daddy K says. “Oscar, take Kyla home.” He gestures our way like he’s shooing us out the door. “Make sure she gets some ice for her wrist since my son doesn’t know how to treat a woman who’s his. We’ll decide what’s happening.”
Johnny immediately drops my arm like it’s a scalding hot pan he’s just burned himself on.
I don’t make a move to even inspect what he’s done. Johnny tries to catch my eye, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. I walk toward the door we came in, and Oscar follows me.
As soon as we get outside, I spin on him. “What the fuck?”
“What?” he growls back.
His mask slips. He’s back to being Oscar Drego, the guy who was forced to join the Crew.
“What the fuck was that back there?”
He ignores me, and we get into the elevator. I have no idea if there are cameras in here or not, so maybe I shouldn’t even be talking right now, but motherfucker. His opinion could’ve swayed Big Daddy K away from me and then what advantage would I have?
“I’m not allowed to have an opinion?” He glances up to the corner of the elevator, and I’m wondering if he means to tell me to wait to have this conversation.
Even though that’s the last thing I want to do, I keep my mouth shut.
The elevator opens in the underground garage and Oscar turns the opposite direction from the car I arrived in. His taut muscles don’t make his lithe movements more jumbled. Instead, he looks like a predator ready to strike. Whatever was said up in that suite affected him as much as me. He strides up next to a motorcycle. “This is what I brought with me. It’ll have to do.”
I stare at it. My jaw unhinges. “You don’t have a car?”
“I used to, but it went to shit. A fellow member of the Crew was getting rid of this, so he sold it to me for cheap.”
It looks cheap too. Well, it looks like it used to be a damn nice motorcycle when it was first built, but now it’s showing its age. It looks like a goddamn death trap. “I’m not riding on that.”
Oscar drops his head back in annoyance. “Don’t give me shit about this. I have to take you home, head back to school because I have a fucking game tonight I don’t want to miss.”
Fuck. I’d already forgotten about Oscar’s game. I swallow back the selfish feelings rising inside me and sigh. “Fine. But don’t fucking kill me.”
“Are you kidding? You get hurt and Johnny will fucking kill me.” He makes sure I’m staring straight into the abyss of his eyes. “He’ll also give me shit because those beautiful legs of yours will be wrapped around me.” My heart kicks up. He’s trying to bait me.
He winks, and a flush of heat hits my cheeks. In another place, another town, Oscar would be the shit. I bet the girls swamped him when he went to Spring Hill. Who doesn’t want to date the quarterback? Especially if he’s as good as Oscar makes himself out to be.
“Are you seriously flirting with me after you told them you didn’t think I should fight?”
A scowl crosses his face, and he stalks toward me. “Did you ever think Johnny’s not the only one who doesn’t want to see you get hurt? Don’t be so fucking dense, Princess.”
“Don’t call me fucking Princess.”
His lips quirk up. “I like calling you Princess. I like the angry heat it brings to your cheeks and the mouth it gives you. That’s like crack to me, Pretty Girl. Pretty, Pretty Princess,” he tacks on, like shoving the knife that much deeper.