Playing with Fire

West: Tell him to go to hell.

I tucked my phone into my back pocket at the food truck. The fight was getting closer, and I didn’t want to lie to Grace about what was going down, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to pay the bastard with money I didn’t have either.

“What’s with you?” My girlfriend flashed me a crooked smile, rubbing my arm. We were closing up for the night. I dropped a kiss to her ball cap.

“Nothing. Just Max being Max. Can Marla stay with Grams a few minutes more? I want to grab a bite before we head home.”

Home. I was half-living with Grace at this point. Luckily, East was too busy dipping his dong in every other female on campus to mind my absence. I’d barely seen him at Reign’s party. I needed to sit Texas down and tell her what was up with the fight, with no interruptions.

“I’ll check.” She moved from the open window to the fridge, putting away some containers. I’d leaned over to roll the window down when I noticed movement in the dark. Two pairs of eyes twinkled from behind black ski masks, staring back at me.

Male.

Large.

And goddamn threatening.

I heard the soft click of a gun as the hammer cocked back.

“Unlock the door”—the cold barrel pressed against my bare wrist—“unless you want your precious arm blown off.”

The mask muffled the voice, but the order was clear.

I took a step back, holding my hands up. The desire to smash their heads together was strong.

“I’ll hand you the money through the window,” I said evenly.

And your ass later, when I figure out who you are.

Grace stiffened in my periphery, her breath catching.

“We know you’re not alone. Open the damn door,” the man said.

“You want money, be my guest. You want access to the girl, you’re going to go through me. Friendly advice—you aren’t gonna like it,” I hissed.

There was no point pretending Texas wasn’t there.

The man raised his gun, firing one bullet. It grazed my shoulder and lodged into the metal roof of the truck like gum. Adrenaline pumped in my veins, and my fingers itched to take action. Not doing shit when provoked wasn’t in my DNA.

I was going to fucking end them, given the chance.

“Unlock. The. God. Damned. Door.”

Grace saw the blood and cried out, rushing to the door and unlocking it with shaky fingers.

Fuck, baby. No.

The masked men didn’t waste time. They burst into the trailer, flipping everything that wasn’t drilled into place upside down. I shoved Grace behind me. She dug her phone out of her pocket. While I handled asshole number one, asshole number two grabbed it from her hands and tossed it to the driver’s seat. Asshole number two then headed straight to me. Neither of them made a move toward the register.

My attacker tried throwing in a punch. I dodged it, crouching down. I sent a jab from hell to his torso. The sound of his rib cracking filled the air. He folded in two, saliva dribbling from his ski mask.

“Motherfucker!”

I grabbed his friend by the collar of his shirt and hurled him across the trailer, away from Grace. There were too many people inside the truck. But I knew the guy I tossed around had the gun. I pounced on him, prying the gun out of his hand and throwing it out the window. I raised my fist, about to knock his lights out, when his friend grabbed me by the back of my shirt and smashed me against the fridge. They both climbed up to their feet, throwing me down, and started kicking me in the ribs, shoulders, and head.

Texas’ shriek pierced through my ears. I had a flashback to when she’d told me it was her grandmother’s scream that made her find the Samsonian strength to fight back.

She jumped on one of them, trying to shove him away from me. “Leave him alone!”

Why didn’t they take the fucking cash and leave? But the answer was clear—they weren’t here for the money. They were here for me.

I grabbed one of the guys’ legs as he was about to smash it into my face and pulled him down with me. He struggled to clamber up, and I used the opportunity to bracket him with my thighs. I grabbed a can of refried beans and smashed it against his face. His nose broke with a pop.

Crack.

I hit his forehead next, watching as his ski mask soaked with blood.

Crack.

Next, I smashed the can against his mouth, hearing his teeth cracking. Soon, I pounded into his face with the can so furiously, I was pretty sure there was nothing behind that mask but a pool of blood. All I saw was red—and the threat of someone hurting a person I cared about.

Not again, bastards. Never again.

The guy he’d come with was trying to crawl out of the trailer, moaning in pain. Somewhere in the distance, I heard Texas yelling hysterically. At first, I thought she was upset about my getting injured, but then her voice became sharper.