Unthinkable (Unstoppable 2)

My head spun so fucking fast everything around me blurred. “Where?”

“Oh, look who joined the conversation.” Danny sniggered.

“Fuck off,” I muttered, shoving the door open as soon as the car slowed to a crawl.

Unless she’d sold it, the little blue Honda parked up beside Jase’s Subaru belonged to Lissa. Which meant she was here.

With both hands jammed into my pockets, I eyed her car, not quite sure how I felt about that. Happy? Pissed? Indifferent? Not if my soaring fucking pulse rate was anything to go by. Eight months and change, and the girl was still taking up space in my head.

Jase and Danny stopped walking up ahead and turned back to me. “You coming, or what?”

Twigs and gravel crunched under the soles of my Vans as I strode away from the car and drew up behind them.

I hadn’t seen Lissa in person since the day I’d parked up opposite her house, and she’d unknowingly sucker punched me with a single fucking smile. Made a nice change from her slicing me to shreds with her acerbic tongue, but it proved that she could slay me no matter what fucking tack she used.

The prospect of seeing her had my blood bubbling with restless anticipation, maybe even excitement. Because apparently, I’d kissed her once and lost my fucking mind.

My gaze scanned over the packed field as we cleared the woods and tried to weave through the fuck ton of bodies. It was busier than Times Square here tonight. I bounced up on my toes and searched the crowd for a halo of pale blonde hair, quickly realizing that it was the equivalent of looking for a needle in a heavy petting haystack. Imagine Where’s Waldo, but the X-rated edition. Fuck me.

“Catch up with you later,” I muttered, leaving the guys with a group of now seniors from Claremont High and elbowing my way through the crowd.

Who the fuck was Lissa even here with? Riley hit me up yesterday with a brief message saying she’d been home for a few days over Christmas, but she was back in Atlanta. Sara was still in Florida. I could recite that chick’s daily itinerary for the foreseeable future; Jason needed to spring his balls out of her purse and Gorilla Glue those fuckers back on.

So, who the fuck would the snow queen be partying with?

Ten aggravating as fuck minutes later, I got an answer. One that had my teeth clamping together and air jutting from my lungs in a visible cloud of irritation.

I watched with a clenched jaw and blind fury rocking my vision as Jackson fucking Bateman gripped Lissa’s arm and hauled her body up against a tree when she tried to walk away from him.

I was halfway across the muddy field before I had time to blink, propelled into action by a thick, pulsating anger that had my arm cocked and fist locked.

“The fuck’s going on here?” I ground out, my voice seething with barely controlled rage.

Bateman backed up instantly—both hands lifting either side of his head—but I wasn’t interested in being a judge or fucking jury… I was the executioner. My elbow reared back as he retreated. I took the last few steps at a jog, then launched forward and sunk my knuckles into the side of his stunned face. Dropping low, I grasped a handful of Jackson’s padded jacket and hauled him closer, blood rushing like crushing rapids against my skull as I pulled my arm back again.

The asshole threw up both arms, blocking my second hit.

“What the fuck, Bradshaw?” Bateman shouted, twisting in my hold.

“Calm down, Pretty Boy. Just let him go.” Lissa’s voice dragged me back from the edge of insanity, and I wrenched my head round. Something about her tone sounded off; thin, lacking some of her usual bite.

With my chest heaving and brows lowered, I scanned up her lithe body, looking for any obvious signs of injury. The black cloud of rage surrounding me expanded when I noted what she was wearing. Or wasn’t. Dark pink workout leggings covered her slim thighs, and two inches of bare midriff were left exposed by the flimsy, cropped black shirt she wore. The dark material fluttered against her pebbled skin in the late December breeze.

My head snapped back to Bateman, my jaw tense and throbbing. I gave my head a vigorous shake to dispel the very real thoughts of murder circling my brain. He’d been fucking pawing at her while she was practically naked and catching fucking pneumonia.

A growl climbed up my throat.

Shifting my gaze to Lissa, I grated, “Where the fuck are the rest of your clothes? Your coat, jacket?”

She shot me a scowl, then stalked off without responding. Or grabbing a jacket.

“Lissa!” I called to her retreating back.

Fucking… fuck!

I dropped my head back and dragged a lungful of air in through my nostrils, the intense need to pummel Jackson’s face to dust warring with the even more concentrated desire to follow Lissa and make sure she was okay.

She won out.