She wants me to go to a party with her and, well...lying isn’t my style. I texted Eli for permission to go and I was greeted with a firm: hell, no.
“Why don’t you come to Olivia’s and hang out?” I ask.
“They’re getting to you, aren’t they?”
A pshaw sound leaves my mouth because they so aren’t, but then my eyes automatically trail over to Oz and he’s speaking to them. Oh my freaking God, he’s speaking to those girls again.
“Emily!” Violet slips into my line of vision. “What did I tell you? They are pretty looking, but they’re full of hurt.”
I sweep my hair away from my forehead and try not to let it bother me that the girl with the overly large chest touched Oz’s arm. “What happened between you and Chevy?”
A shadow crosses her face. “The club is what happened to Chevy and the club is what’s happening to Oz. They can act nice and sweet, but they’re dogs. Mark my words on this.”
My stomach bottoms out. “Did he cheat on you?”
“Yeah,” she says. “But not in the way that you think. He said he loved me and then...when it counted he didn’t love me.”
Violet presses a hand to her stomach in a way that causes me to take her other hand. She’s in pain and I wish I could remove the part that aches.
“Violet?” The soft way Chevy said her name startles me more than his sudden appearance. “Are you okay?”
Her blue eyes snap to his and there’s no mistaking the absolute sadness there. They stare at each other. One second. Two. As we wander into three I feel like an intruder in a very intimate yet electrically charged moment.
“Violet!” Jared cups his hands to his mouth to get her attention. “Let’s go.”
Chevy’s eyes briefly close and when he reopens him, the breath is knocked out of me by the hurt haunting him. “Don’t do it. I am begging you to not do this.”
Violet’s spine straightens as she lifts her chin. “Just like I asked you not to do what you did.”
She walks away, slamming her shoulder into his arm, and Chevy remains still, focusing on the ground as if nothing else around him exists.
Oz swipes the football I had forgotten I held and presses it to Chevy’s chest. “Everything’s in order. Why don’t you go and get the kids together.”
It takes a few seconds, but Chevy accepts the ball and heads onto the field.
“That was comfortable,” I say.
“You get to leave Snowflake.” Oz watches his best friend, my cousin, round up some kids. “I get to live with it for the rest of my life.”
“Super.” Because what else do you say? “I stayed, so what do you need?”
“Well.” He studies me in a way that makes me feel like he’s seen me with my clothes off. “I have a boy in a wheelchair who asked if he gets a kiss on the cheek from the prettiest girl here since he scored a touchdown.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Did the two girls drooling over you refuse?”
Oz cracks this smile that makes me love and hate him. “I said pretty, Emily. You’re the only girl around here who fits that description. Are you in or what?”
“Yeah,” I say, as I secretly dance within. “I’m in.”
Oz
I LEAN DOWN and I’m eye to eye with one of the craziest sons-of-bitches on the planet. Sweat drenches my T-shirt thanks to the muggy night. Razor’s jaw swells from the last play and my hand throbs from a hit I took from him a few series back. Blood drips from each scrape on my body and I chuckle when he wipes at the small trickle of red at the corner of his mouth.
A sharp gust rushes through the trees of the forest surrounding the property, bringing with it the smell of honeysuckle. The branches bend and the leaves flip back to show their white underbelly. A few stars twinkle overhead through the racing clouds, but the wind warns of an impending storm.
Razor’s golden-blond hair falls over his eyes and being on the opposite side of the line from him would cause most men to shiver. A slow sadistic grin promising pain slides across his face. “You think you can handle me, Oz?”
“I think you’re all talk.” I think Razor could easily slit my throat with that knife strapped to his leg, and he wouldn’t shed a single tear as he witnessed me bleed out. Because we’ve been close since we were kids, I gamble that he’ll keep his knife and his impulsive tendencies to himself.
“I’m man enough to take you down,” he taunts.
“Nah,” I answer. “I don’t think you are.”
His insane smile widens. “Know what happened when I used to walk into the shower in the locker room at school?”
Knowing he’s a crazy bastard, guys tripped over themselves to get the hell out of his way. “What?”
He winks. “They took one look at me and applauded.”
I snort and when Chevy calls the snap, I have to switch gears and throw myself at Razor to stop him from tackling my best friend before Chevy throws the ball.
“Touchdown!” Chevy calls, but Razor rages forward. I dig my feet into the ground, determined not to allow him an inch. With muscles locked tight, I break through his arms and push off his chest, causing him to stumble.
Razor’s eyes glaze over and he’s a bull seeing red. His arm swings back with a ready-made fist. Not noticing how Razor just lost his shit, Chevy slips between us. I grab Chevy and toss him to the side and yell, “Chevy said touchdown, bitch.”
Razor blinks, and the horror mirrored there as he realizes he was two seconds from pile driving me and Chevy causes me to ache for my longtime friend.
Chevy offers Razor his fist and with a deep breath Razor shakes off Mr. Hyde for Dr. Jekyll.
Regret deepens the already constant pain in Razor’s eyes and instead of bumping Chevy’s fist, he holds out his hand for a shake. Chevy accepts and the two end up in a brief half hug. Razor’s haunted by a hurt too deep to understand. His mother messed him up in ways that none of us can begin to know how to heal, and because of that, we’ll always have his back.
When they let go, Razor nods at me. I nod back. The all clear that we’re good.
Razor picks up the football, taps Stone on the back and pitches the ball in the air. “Let’s work on your catching.”
Stone reaches out his hands and the ball soars straight through. Chevy turns his head to hide the wince. I school my expression but internally feel the pain. Olivia used to read a book to me when I was a kid about a lion that was a late bloomer. I sure as hell hope that fifteen will be Stone’s bloom year because, for him, fourteen ain’t doing shit.