Bad Boy Hero - Tanglewood Academy

“Oh, it could be better.” He’s still moving toward me, faster than I anticipated.

I reach into my purse, fumbling as I continue to back away, but I can’t find my the stupid whistle my mother insisted on buying me—for safety, “just in case,” she said. Shit.

“Come on, you looking for an afterparty?” He’s nearly on top of me.

Then my back bangs into something solid. The dumpster. There’s nowhere else to go. Before I can think about it or move away, the man shifts to bar my exit, cornering me between the brick wall and the dumpster.

“Hey, back off,” I say, but my voice comes out quieter than I’d like.

“Don’t be like that.” He steps closer. God, he reeks of alcohol. And he must be at least my mom’s age, maybe older. My stomach clenches. “I’m just trying to have some fun. Aren’t you?” He reaches up for my cheek, and I swat his hand away.

Shit. To judge by the flash of anger in his eyes, he didn’t appreciate that.

“Hey, I tipped you well earlier, you ungrateful little—”

Whatever he’s about to call me, I don’t find out because the next thing I know, another hand has wrapped around his wrist. The man has just enough time to utter a surprised, “What the?” before he’s flung away from me.

I flinch and fling an arm over my face to protect myself. For a moment, all I hear are scuffles and grunts. Then the loud smack of someone’s fist connecting with a face.

With effort, I spread my fingers to peer between them at the scene unfolding before me.

It’s Keanen. What he’s doing here at this hour, I have no idea—I didn’t even notice him in the bar earlier, although that could have been because it was so packed all night. He’s still wearing his school uniform, but one of the sleeves is torn, as the other man rips it down.

“The fuck?” the other guy’s still sputtering.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Women.” Keanen accentuates each word with another punch—an uppercut to the other man’s stomach, then a fist to his nose. There’s a spurt of blood, and then the other man retaliates, managing to land a blow to Keanen’s eye that makes his head snap back.

I gasp, but he recovers fast, leaning down to throw his shoulder into him, slamming him against the brick wall.

There’s another sound, the crack of bone against solid brick, and the other man stumbles to his knees, cursing and holding his head.

“Get out of here.” Keanen kicks at his side. The other man grunts in response. “If I ever see you in this bar again, I’m having you arrested, understand me?”

The man mumbles something—I doubt it’s anything approaching an apology—but he does seem to listen. He scrambles to his feet and then hurries in the opposite direction, away from the bar, toward the distant street.

I hold my breath, watching him go. I don’t even realize I’m not breathing until stars appear at the edges of my vision. Only when he disappears from sight do I suck in a fresh breath of air and turn back to Keanen.

Keanen, who has a visible red splotch around his eye.

“Oh, God.” I step toward him, my hand hovering in the air between us. “That’s going to bruise. Hang on. Wait right here.” Before he can protest, I run to the door, but it’s locked. Strange. So I run around the corner and duck back into the bar through the back door, and weave my way through the crowd again.

Henry notices me coming back in and cocks his head in a silent question. I shake my head. I’ll explain it to him later. Tomorrow, when my head is clear. For now, I have an injury to treat. “Ice,” I bark, and to his credit, Henry must sense not to ask questions. He ducks under the bar, and pops back up a moment later with a fistful of ice in a glass. I scoop up a napkin, nod my thanks, and beeline back into the alleyway.

Outside, Keanen’s leaning against the wall, his head resting against it, eyes shut. He almost looks like he’s meditating, or sleeping standing up. For a split second, his expression looks… peaceful, almost.

Then his eyes snap open, hearing my footsteps, and his familiar mask falls back into place. That cocky, knowing look, like he’s in charge of every situation he’s ever stepped foot into.

Because he probably is, I remind myself. Still, I approach with the glass of ice, and wrap a few in a napkin. “Here. Let me.” I hold it up.

Dutifully, he ducks his head and lets me press the ice to his eye. The moment it touches his skin, he sucks in a quiet breath. But other than that, he doesn’t protest. I hold it there for a moment until he takes it from me.