Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book)

by Reinhardt, Liz

"Of course. You're my girl. You gotta meet them all sometime anyway. Might as well be sooner than later. I'm gonna warn you, though; they are crazy as hell."

  The fear and worry on his face is so bald it's almost dizzyingly hilarious. I slide my hands down his arms and pull on his elbows.

  "I don't want that until you're positive you're ready." The color springs back to his skin, and he sags with visible relief. "But I do want to come with you to this fight. Now. No more arguing. And I can take care of myself."

  He tenses back up.

  "No way. Dinner every night with my family for the rest of the month if you want. By the way, I'm positive you're gonna regret asking for that. My family is not the party you think they are." I purse my lips and he rushes to add, "Dates. Weekly dates. Phone call check-ins, love letters, that sonnet I promised you. Anything, Evan, but not this." He comes towards me and takes my hands in his. "I'm begging you, not this."

  It's romance. Every word out of his mouth is like the first time I wrapped my arms around a boy's gangly neck and slow-danced in eighth grade; thrilling, exquisite, exciting romance. But I've let him direct enough of this relationship, and I know I have the leverage to make this happen.

  "I. Want. To. Go."

  I set my feet apart in a determined stance and radiate a pure refusal to back down. Winch's guilt, lust, and lack of time conspire and work a miracle for me. I watch it play out in slow motion; fierce pissed-off refusal, agitated uncertainty, desperate resignation, and complete shock that sets those sexy blue eyes wide.

  "I can't fucking believe I'm saying this, but c'mon." He opens my door, his mouth flattened in an angry line. "But I don't like this."

  My door slams shut, and I watch him stalk in front of the car, his mouth moving a hundred miles an hour, like he's having a heated argument with himself. When he opens the driver's side, I get the gist.

  "...stupid, insane ideas. This isn't some little boxing match in a ring with refs and rules. This is nasty stuff, and no one there is gonna be watchin' his manners or behaving. How the hell am I gonna take down two Murrays when I'm worried about making sure no one puts a hand on you? How am I supposed to manage this?"

  At first, the whole complicated argument is only with himself, but he suddenly turns his scowls and howls on me.

  I look him dead in the eye and ask, "Who is 'She's Like the Wind'?"

  His mouth suctions shut and silence fills the interior. I'm just glad he stopped raving like a lunatic, and I don't honestly expect a response, but he surprises me.

  One of the things I love best about Winch is that he always manages to surprise me, just when I've written him off as total bad news.

  "That song isn't a song that means anything to me," he says, his voice even and low. "It means something to a girl I dated. The last girl I dated. She programmed it in my phone, and I just never erased her from my contacts."

  "No?"

  I'd deleted pictures, updated my FB status, burned collected couples memorabilia, smudged out all contact information, and drank myself into a blank, subdued state the very night Rabin and I split up. I thought that was common behavior.

  "No. The end, with me and my ex, it was a long time coming. And I stopped hating her a long time before things self-destructed. I just started feeling bad for her. Lost a lot of respect for her, and that translated into not really giving a shit. So I didn't delete her out of my phone or change that stupid ringtone, but it doesn't mean anything." He reaches over and takes my hand, locking his fingers with mine. "Unless it means something to you. Cause then I'll delete it so fast, it'll be unreal. Plus that, I hate that damn song anyway."

  I pull his hand, linked with mine, up to my mouth and kiss his knuckles. "Doesn't matter to me."

  A strange, sweet heat bubbles up inside me and makes my head feel light on my neck, like I'm floating on a million bubbles in a just-opened champagne bottle.

  We go the rest of the way with a gentle quiet, the first really sweet, fuzzy, trusting quiet in our entire relationship. And it just happens to fall right before we drive up to a nasty, jeering mob, trigger-ready for a massive fight.

  When Winch looks over at me, his blue eyes are hot and serious.

  "Do not leave this car. Sit on the hood, the roof, inside, but don't you dare leave this car. Understood?"

  I glance through the crowd, undulating as groups of people jab back and forth, throwing themselves into the fray, and backing up away from the heat just as quickly. Winch's hands grip mine, and I jump, meeting his intense gaze.

  "I get it," I promise him.

  He leans over and cups my face with his hand, runs his thumb over my cheekbone, brushes his lips over mine, eyes shut tight, brow furrowed.

  "You gotta forgive me for this, ahead of time, okay? It's what I have to do, like it or not. Forgive me, Evan?"

  His voice is so desperate, there's nothing else to say. "Of course. Be safe. Promise me, Winch?"

  "As safe as I can be."

  His lips are hot and hard on mine, and I want more, want him, all of him, with me, all alone.

  The crowd rushes the car when they recognize it’s his, and I lose him in a throng of cheering, drunk guys who pull at him and draw him toward some cleared center, where the lineup is denser and, I'm sure, more vicious.

  I grab the keys Winch left on the seat, slide out the door, depress the locks, and try to make it out of the space between the car and the opened door as I elbow against the wave of people crushing in on all sides. I get pushed back into the interior twice by the lines and groups of people coming from nowhere and everywhere to see what, I don't know yet.

  Their enthusiasm is unsettling. This is Roman Colosseum excitement, and I stand on my tiptoes to catch Winch's back, the muscles of his shoulders strained through the thin fabric of his shirt. Worry needles at the edge of my throat, but I try to tell myself it will be okay. Winch is strong and smart. He's used to this kind of violence. This is his world, and he knows how to navigate it.

  But I don't believe my own comforting words. I scramble onto the gunmetal grey hood, careful not to make a dent, but I still can't see, so I pull up onto the roof. It's not much better. Not only is there a thick congregation of stark, raving lunatics screaming in the middle of all this, there are more bodies heaving and shoving every second.

  I see a huge guy, big as a black bear on its hind legs, with thick ropes of dread-locked hair and a scruffy, coarse beard, batting people away with the flats of his enormous hands.

  "Move outta the way, fuckups! Anyone touches these girls, you have me to answer to!"

  People repel away from him, giving him a clean, clear circle amid the chaos.

  Five or six made-up, dressed-up, phone-addicted teenage girls cluster and disperse a few feet from him, always in his orbit, but never too close to their hulk of a bodyguard. Seeing my chance, I slide off the car and fall into the guy's shadow, melding in with the group of girls quietly. I don't stand close enough that I'd be considered one of them, but I don't stray so far away that anyone would bother me.

  The air is hot and sticky, and there's the bitter/sour smell of beer everywhere. At this point the only kind of violence going on is screaming, one red-faced, sweaty guy with his shirt half off yelling at another growling, teeth-bared idiot with his fists up, small groups of divided alliances hurling insults at other small groups, most involving mothers and fucking. It's vocally cacophonous, but bearable, because there's no real bloodshed.

  But it feels like real violence is simmering right under the lid of this pot of boiling emotions, ready to explode at any second. That would make sense. Violence in books and movies is always like a powder keg and a spark, and this jostling, yelling, inarticulate, drunk crowd is crawling a clear path to open-season chaos.

  I keep one eye on my bear-like protector and move closer to the main ring. I guess I was waiting for this to work like a boxing match, with a referee making the fighters knock gloves and a little bell to ding before things get too awful, but I suddenly realize the brawl
already started and it’s anything but a civil, fair fight.

  The people in the tightest inner ring seem to be taking bets and keeping score, but I don't know how it all works.

  Remy, thin and wiry, dark hair falling into his blue eyes, slight beer gut giving him an older, sloppy look, hops in the middle, bobbing and weaving back and forth, fists up, blood already leaking in small strands from his nose and mouth. He takes a bare knuckle hit to his eye, and the ferocious smack of skin and bone on skin and bone makes my stomach churn.

  Remy shakes his head back and forth a few times, snorts, and runs at the guy who hit him, a brawny blond with a ruddy face. He knocks headfirst into the guy's stomach, throwing him to the ground with such intensity, he knocks the wind right out of his opponent.

  Half the crowd erupts into shattering cheers, half hisses and snarls with jeers and threats.

  "One more, Youngblood! Take that Murray fucker down!" Remy's fans roar.

  There are tons of them, and they all gasp in horror when the blond guy catches his breath and comes up swinging, packing a blow on each side of Remy's head. Remy falls back into the arms of a guy who calls out some numbers, drags him back, and pushes Winch into the middle.

  The entire crowd suddenly loses its volume and focus and my vision blurs at the edges and stretches back and forth with a swooning dip and hurl.

  He's stripped off the white shirt, and he's all flat-packed muscles and smooth tanned skin, with more tattoos then I had a chance to see in the dark of my bedroom the night before.

  'Youngblood' is scrawled in swirling letters in an arc across his abs. There's a huge cross between his shoulder blades, a rifle on his ribs, and two diving swallows on his pecs.

  There are more than a few girls in the crowd, and every one of them gets hushed and whispers with pleasure when he comes to the center.

  I don't want him to know I broke his only rule about leaving the car, but I'd like him to see me, know I'm here for him. And, much as I despise that whole piss-on-your-territory vibe some girls give off, I'm feeling a bit like a dog by a hydrant when I see all the shiny hair flips and mascara-laden eyelash bats Winch is getting from every single direction.

  But Winch doesn't see me or anyone else. His expression is grim and determined. He shakes off well wishers who pat him on the back as he takes his place, feet apart in a relaxed stance, fists up and loosely ready.

  My heart is punching in my chest, holding onto the bars of my ribs and banging itself against them. My mouth is parched, my palms are slick with sweat, and my entire body gives little uncertain jerks and jumps based on the swirling mix of worry and anticipation that rocks through me.

  The ruddy guy who fought Remy is pulled back, and an identical-looking replacement falls into the center of the ring, already snarling and lunging. Winch holds back, taking a graze on the side of the head and another weak jab on the ribs.

  Seeing him get hit in any capacity make me crazed with worry, but I trust him to know how to manipulate this whole situation. This is how he's gauging the fight, how he's going to calculate his moves for an ultimate win. I have to trust that he can handle himself.

  He takes a harder hit to his shoulder, ducks down and weaves back. The crowd around him starts to hiss and boo, thirsty for more blood from this show.

  I don't know if I've ever hated a crowd of people more than I hate these people right now. I honestly wish the earth would open under them and suck them into the bowels of hell. How could they want the blood and pain that's going to come? I choke back a gag when the first facial punch lands.

  A fountain of blood erupts from Winch's nose, crimson red and so horrifyingly alive and gruesome, pinpricks of silver spot in front of my eyes and I feel like I'm looking down a long, black tunnel. I stagger a little and bump into a guy who gives me a callous shoulder push back. I swallow hard, but my saliva tastes acrid in my mouth. I take a few deep breaths and steady myself back on my feet, ready to see this to the finish.

  Winch simply wipes the blood in a long, wild, red streak across his cheek. There's still a trickle leaking from his nose, but it seems to interest his opponent more than it does him.

  The blond takes one more swing, and this time we all know it's over before he follows through. With that massive an amount of force, aimed right at Winch's temple, I know full well I'm going to be in the ER with him, getting an MRI to make sure his brains still operate.

  The silver pricks of light are back, and I pitch forward, hands braced on my knees, and will my legs not to give out, not yet, when two solid thunks burst through the air and bring gasps and cheers from a portion of the crowd.

  I stand straight up and Winch is rolling his neck from side to side, the other guy is doubled over, and the crowd is getting louder. The blond guy attempts to stand tall, but he falls back over, and his brother/twin bursts forward, fists poised, and delivers a vicious punch to Winch's back that loosens a scream from my throat before I can hold it back.

  Winch twists and punches back with quick, knuckle-heavy jabs on the guy's lower back and rib area, and he manages to take the huge hulk, writhing in pain, down to the ground, the two of them throwing hard punches as they fall.

  The crowd is jostling hard now. I have no idea where the bear of a guy I thought I'd stay close to is, and I can only see snippets of the fight through the moving bodies stepping closer for a more direct view of the gore and nudging me farther back. The last thing I see is a smear of red glistening on the concrete.

  Winch's blood or the other guy's? My stomach recoils, and I swallow back the urge to vomit right on the stomping boots of this crowd. I press past, getting pushed two steps backward for every step forward I manage to take, and by the time I hit the outside edges of the inner circle again, I manage to catch Winch's eye.

  His head jerks up, and he glares through an already bruised, purpling socket, putting a strangle-hold on the other guy and punching him in the ear with a menacing fist. Just when I'm sure he's going to drop the guy's head onto the cement, the abbreviated warning of a police siren screams in the near distance.

  The congealed crowd of raging, yelling lunatics suddenly disperses into every imaginable direction, stampeding into waiting cars, slipping down shaded alleys, ducking into suddenly opened doors which close just as quickly.

  I try to run toward Winch, but he yells to me, "Remy's in the back!"

  "I'll bring the car around!"

  He locks eyes with me, and for one long second, I know he debates giving me the okay. I don't wait for his permission. If I want to get out of here and have a chance in hell of getting Winch and Remy away from this craziness without another arrest, we have to move.

  I use my elbows, knees, head, whatever I can to break through the insane, crazed stampede and finally get back to Winch's car. I tug the keys out of my pocket and slide in, then back down the nearest side street as quickly as I can while checking for darting, panicked spectators on the run, praying the cops are coming from the other direction and that no one is coming down the one-way I'm illegally driving on like a lunatic. Part of me is scared shitless, and another huge part of me feels like a badass cowgirl living on the edge.

  I whip the car around and bump the back fender into a cement planter full of tiger lilies. The bump jars all thoughts of badassary out of my head and makes me grimace with the realization that I almost definitely dented Winch's car.

  I make a more careful circuit to the back of the ring of buildings where they were fighting, and Winch runs over, dragging Remy under the shoulders.

  I reach across the car and push the passenger doors open, and the guys fall in. I'm pulling out before Winch has both legs in, and he slams the door shut as we negotiate our way down a long, quiet, shady, up-and-coming street that borders back-alley fight clubs, apparently, but doesn't attract much police attention. I keep a decent speed, don't rack up any traffic violations, and glance over at Winch.

  "Where do you need to go?" I ask, trying not to let my eyes linger too long over his sweat-soaked
muscles.

  This is pervertedly sexy. Like Googling "sexy, sexy, sexy man" and gazing at pics for hours sexy. My hormones are officially out of fucking control.

  "Why the hell didn't you stay in the car?" Winch demands, his nostrils flared in fury.

  And it's like he just ignited the spark against the propane tank of my temper.

  "This isn't a game, Evan. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. Girls show up at this stuff, and it's like porn for them. They can't resist it." He squirms in the passenger seat, obviously uncomfortable not being the one behind the wheel.

  I grip the steering wheel and try very hard to come up with something not entirely vulgar to say to him, especially considering I was just ogling his muscles a second ago. I’m not about to acknowledge that, though.

  "Porn? Are you kidding me? You think I wrestled through that big-ass, scary-ass crowd so I could see you with your shirt off? If you think your muscles are worth all that trouble, your ego needs some major taming."

  Remy, head leaned on the back seat, lets out a scratchy chuckle. "I like this girl." He lifts his battered face and squints. "This the one that made you all antsy at dinner? I get it now. I so get it now."

  "Shut up, Remy," Winch growls.

  "Make me, Muhammad Fucking Ali." Before they can get into a spat, Remy's phone plays the Stormtrooper March from Star Wars.

  "Hey Mama," he answers, and I have an instant fit of the giggles. Winch doesn't drop his glare for a single second. "Fight? Not at all. I mean, we were there, but we didn't fight. Well, you know those guys can get a little rough, so we had to defend some girls-- Uh-huh. Okay. Yeah. Twenty minutes."

  He slides his phone back in his pocket and winks in the rearview mirror at me. "Guess who's coming to dinner? Take the next left and make a u-turn. We're off East Taylor."

  Winch massages his temples, and I look at Remy in the mirror in frantic panic, made extra upsetting because their house is off East Taylor, one of the oldest, richest streets in Savannah. Which means that I will be judged based on how I look and talk and carry myself from the moment I walk through the doors.