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CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Jigsaw

Rooster and I round the corner of the food shack.

“This guy’s been a clown long before tonight,” Rooster says.

“Yeah. Puttin’ his hands on Libby, though? That’s straight up insane. Dex is gonna kill him when he gets back.”

We find them in a field beyond the last shack, the grass bathed in a weak circle of light.

Buck’s standing there, half-slouched, working his jaw like he’s chewing on something foul.

Or gearing up to plead for his life. Remy’s got his arms crossed, casual but tense, like he’s restraining the urge to swing first. Griff’s back in the shadows, leaning on the chain-link fence, scanning the area to make sure no one’s gonna walk up on this scene uninvited.

Torch is off to the side, hands in his pockets—a pissed-off expression on his face.

I slow my pace, sweeping my gaze over the group.

Buck’s voice grates through the humid air. “If she didn’t want the attention, she shouldn’t be wearing jeans that tight.”

Rooster stiffens beside me. My blood boils.

Griff straightens, but Remy beats him to it, stepping forward. “She’s a kid. A friend of my sister,” Remy says. “Barely out of high school. The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Whoa, whoa, chill.” Buck smirks and holds up his hands. “How am I supposed to know that?”

Rooster jerks forward. “You shouldn’t be puttin’ hands on anyone, asshole. Point-blank.”

“Period,” Torch adds.

Rooster’s fists clench, but I stick my arm out and stop him going any further. Not yet. “Let’s wait for Dex.”

“Yo, fuck this. You guys are being fuckin’ pussies.” Buck starts walking, using both hands to shove Torch out of his way.

Mistake.

I might not like Torch all that much but he’s a good fighter.

He throws a punch and Buck flies back, landing on the ground with a thud. Out cold. “Nope,” Torch says. “I brought him here. I’ll clean up my own mess.”

Cain steps out of the dark, quick but stealthy, like he’s afraid he missed the good part.

Rooster laughs. “What the fuck’s he doing?”

At his side, something’s swinging. Nothing but a blur of motion.

“Where is he?” Cain asks. “I was with her when it happened. We were just talking, and he came up and—” Cain’s face flashes red, his lips thinning to an angry line.

It takes me a second to process what I’m looking at—a white sock, long and stretched thin from something heavy stuffed in the toe, pinwheeling lazily from Cain’s hand with quiet, rhythmic menace.

My brow furrows. “The fuck you got there, bro?”

He stops the swinging, gives me a casual, dead-eyed, are you sure you want the answer smirk, then bunches up the sock, slowly tugging on it until he pulls out a small can of chicken noodle soup.

Rooster doubles over laughing. “What the…where did you find a can of soup ?”

“I always carry one with me,” Cain answers with a completely straight face.

“It’s cheap. Got some heft to it. Cops stop and ask me about it, it’s just soup for my dinner.

” He tucks the can back into the sock and gives it a swing.

“If someone needs the audacity beat outta ’em, I just take off my sock and… ” A wicked smile twists his mouth up.

Rooster, Remy, Griff, and I just stand there staring at him.

Who is this kid?

“My little brother, everyone.” I slap my chest and turn in a circle. “Brilliant little fucker.”

“Added bonus,” Remy says. “They have to smell your stinky sock while you cave in their skull with a can of chicken noodle soup?”

Cain’s mouth turns up in a slow smirk, vengeance and menace wrapped in boyish charm. “It’s good for the soul.”