Steel Crew : Books 1-3 (Steel World Box Set Book 7)

by Mj Fields

  I throw up again.

  “Then show up here like a little nymph, looking at me like you want my dick, and when I’m not paying attention, doing the same with Harrison?”

  And again.

  “Keep your shit up, and I’ll file an order of protection on your ass.”

  “Shut up!” I yell at him as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “No, you shut the fuck up.” He pulls my hair back and turns my head so I am looking in his direction. “Stay the fuck away from me and my friends, you hear me?”

  “I hate you,” I snarl at him.

  “Feeling’s mutual.” He lets go of my hair.

  “I hate you!” I yell.

  He steps back, looking me up and down like I’m disgusting.

  “I hate you!” I scream.

  His face loses the disdain, and he leans in, looking from one of my eyes to the next. “You hit your fucking head?”

  “Did you get dropped on yours, you arrogant, self-centered assh—” I cover my mouth as I turn and throw up once again.

  He grips my hair again, gentler this time, as he pulls it away from my face.

  “I don’t need your fucking help!”

  “You have a knot on the back of your head, and your pupils are jacked. You’re throwing up and probably have a fucking concussion. Good job, Steel. You come to watch a fight and end up in worse shape than the actual fighters.”

  “Yeah, well, your face is so fucked up you’re probably going to be showering alone for the foreseeable future!” I lean against the sink, reach up, and turn the faucet, trying to rinse the vomit out of my mouth.

  “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure that doesn’t mean shit when you’re packing the uppercase Ds and don’t lay with little, spoiled rotten high school brats.”

  I look back at him and force a laugh. “Oh, that’s right; you’ve got dirty Dee, with her shitty attitude and her old lady snatch. Go you, Easton the ‘Experience’.” I feel my stomach tighten and turn, gripping the counter, knowing I’m going to throw up again.

  “Exactly why, no matter how your eyes beg me to touch you, you’ll never get that experience,” he snaps.

  “Newsflash, asshole, I’d never fuck a thug, money or not, and you are a thug. As far as interest in you, I never even knew you had blue eyes until today.” I inhale a couple slow, steady breaths then push myself up. I turn around and look up at him. “And if you think I didn’t notice how you looked for me tonight, you’re wrong.”

  “Get the fuck over yourself. I was just watching my back because I had no idea when or where you were going to show up next.”

  “Hey!” I hear Patrick’s voice boom into the room. “What the fuck is going on!”

  I narrow my eyes at Tobias, and he narrows his back at me. Then he turns around.

  “Your girl fucked up her ankle, and I’m pretty sure she has a concussion. Her pupils are jacked, and she’s been throwing up.”

  Patrick hurries toward me. “T, the fuck was all five-foot-nothing of you gonna do in that ring?”

  “I was hoping to get a closer look when Ranger and his boys beat the shit out of Tobias.” I take a step and wince.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” He turns, squats down, and looks over his shoulder. “Hop on.”

  Chapter Six

  Idiom

  Actions speak louder than words.

  Truth

  I prefer discussions.

  I wake with the worst headache I’ve ever had, a throbbing ankle, listening to Patrick snore in the bed across the room, and Brisa is curled up next to me like an annoying little blanket-hogging kitten.

  When we got home last night, we were all ready to tell my parents the truth about what happened. We thought it was inevitable with me limping. But when Dad wasn’t waiting up for us, we decided that fate had pushed us into the safe zone and all hurried to my room. Brisa and Patrick took turns poking me every hour or so to make sure I didn’t die in my sleep, and even though I feel like I’m half dead, I am completely alive and still very, very angry at Tobias fucking Easton.

  I roll over and grab my phone to check the time—it’s freaking noon—and see a couple messages from numbers that I don’t recognize.

  I hit the first one.

  - Sorry we skated last night. I almost threw up in (What did you call them? Horses’ asses) house. Had a great time with you and Brisa. We need to hang out more often. ~ Alexa

  I give her message a heart, because that’s all I have the energy for at the moment. Then I open the next text.

  - How’s your head?

  There’s no signature, so I don’t reply or even give it a thumbs-up. I mean, rude.

  The next text reads:

  - How’s your leg?

  Again, no signature. And again, I don’t reply.

  When I see a notification from The Sound, I ignore that, too, because fuck them all.

  When I left on Patrick’s back last night, I didn’t even bother looking back, just beside me to make sure Ranger the Wrecker wasn’t following Brisa out like a lost puppy dog. I had been shocked to see him outside the doorway when Patrick carried me out on his back, looking like hell and standing next to her in a protective manner.

  I throw the comforter off my ankle, the only part of me covered due to Brisa hogging the covers and look down at it seeing that it’s still propped up on a pillow. The cold compress has fallen away, revealing the cankle covered in yellow and purple bruises.

  “Great,” I grumble as I push myself up and carefully move my leg off the bed.

  “Shower. Good Lord, I need a shower.” I stand up, bearing little weight on it at first. The pain is still there, but it’s more achy than sharp.

  Stepping out of the shower, I wrap my hair in a towel then reach for the bath towel hanging on the hook outside my shower. As I grab it and wrap it around me, I laugh slightly at the fact that it reminds me of what started the entire mess last night. Tucking the end between my boobs to ensure it stays closed, I realize it’s a wonder I’m even here after the disaster that was last night.

  Dad being … Dad has always run through worst-case scenarios in horrific and graphic detail in order to scare the shit out of me so I’d “be aware of my surroundings at all times” before any outing, be it a concert, a school function, or even church service. This is why I was pretty sure I was going to get trampled, die, and leave Brisa and Patrick alone last night to explain the events leading up to my demise, which he would then be able to say, I warned her, and she didn’t listen. I feel a slight tinge of guilt that I left Brisa momentarily while I unthinkingly ran toward the ring, worried about that asshole, Tobias.

  Tobias, whose blue eyes haunted my dreams last night.

  My nipples pebble beneath the towel at recalling the fact that, even though I’m pissed off at him—more accurately, disgusted by him—he decided to show up in my dream with a white towel in hand, drying his hair while I lay on his bed.

  Even in my dream, I knew it was just that—a dream—because my head and face were all me, yet my body was definitely Dee’s, right down to the only article of clothing on my … well, her body—those red hooker heels.

  He had dropped the towel, knelt on the bed, and kissed his way up my body. His hands held the sides of my face, as he held his body over mine, propped up by his elbows.

  Standing in my mirror, I look over my reflection through the fading condensation on the vanity mirror, comparing my body to hers. She was every guys’ dream—tall, lean, average boobs, slim hips, and a small, pert ass. She’s a girl who shows up at a fight dressed to the nines and doesn’t overreact to her boyfriend possibly getting jumped, because she isn’t dramatic and takes things as they come.

  Me? I’m the girl who shoves her too big tits into a shirt two sizes too small, wearing leggings, sneakers, and hair in a ponytail. The girl who gets all too emotional because I know how I’d feel standing in a corner alone, and I know how I’d feel if I thought no one had my back.

  Feel, feel, feel,
that’s all I ever do. Well, fuck that. Not anymore. No more displaced and wildly disproportionate feelings for anyone’s wellbeing unless they are my friend to begin with. Because all it gets you is a beat-up ankle, a pounding headache, and a bruised self-image.

  I hear a loud knock outside the bathroom, and then Dad inside my room. “It’s Steel Sunday, crew. Lunch with the family in an hour.”

  I hear Patrick and Brisa moan, open the bathroom door, and peek my head out. “We’ll be up soon.”

  I watch Patrick chuck a pillow at the bathroom door. “You’ll be up to help. We hosted last weekend.”

  “Hung over?” Dad asks him.

  “Little bit,” he admits.

  “Deserve that shit, Tricks. Shouldn’t even have one drink if you’re supposed to be behind the wheel. You’re lucky the girls were around.”

  “Oh, no doubt.” Patrick rolls onto his side, his back facing Dad as he raises a brow at me and repeats, “No doubt.”

  “Where’s the Jeep?” Dad asks.

  “A friend drove it home for me.” Patrick rolls back over and sits up. “Gotta get ahold of her later and grab it.”

  “Feel free to invite her for a meal. Tags and Bella are coming in. One of his friends is in town, so we’re gonna have a few extra bodies, anyway,” Dad offers.

  “Need help getting some extra chairs in?” Patrick stands and stretches.

  Dad looks at the new ink that Justice added to Patrick’s growing body art—on the down-low, of course—and shakes his head. “Justice’s work?”

  Patrick smirks then shrugs.

  Dad sighs. “Kid’s got talent, but a heads-up would always be appreciated.”

  Patrick looks at me, eyes dancing with amusement, then back at Dad. “Truth is getting real good at body modification.”

  “What?” I squeak. Yes, squeak, like a pubescent boy.

  Patrick continues, “By the last rung of my Jacob’s ladder, I almost fell asleep.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I throw the bathroom door open, slip on the wet tile, and fall on my ass, because apparently, I’m more worried about the towel falling than getting hurt.

  “Truth!” Dad’s voice echoes through the wall.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him as I jump up. “Fuck!”

  Patrick beats Dad to the door. “Jesus, T, I was just fucking around.”

  Brisa finally shows up in the conversation. “Oh, Truth, look at your ankle.” She smacks Patrick on the back of the head. “Look what you made her do!”

  “Lemme see, little bird,” Dad says in a much softer tone.

  “Could you all let me get dressed, please? And rest assured, I didn’t pierce his”—I make a gagging sound—“thing.”

  He tosses a glare at Patrick then looks back at my ankle. “Looks bad, Truth. Get dressed, and I’ll look it over.”

  I nod, looking down, unable to give him eye contact. “It doesn’t hurt that bad. Go do what you have to do. I’ll be up after I get ready.”

  He doesn’t move for a couple seconds.

  “Guys, I’m in a freaking towel. Come on.”

  I close the door and listen to them as I quickly throw on some joggers, a minimizer sports bra, and a sweatshirt, trying to ignore the new ache not only in my ankle but now in my ass, too.

  “Gonna go grab a quick shower in JT’s room and throw on some of his clothes. Won’t take more than five minutes.”

  “You sure you don’t need time to do your hair?” Dad pokes fun at Patrick.

  “Might wear a headband today. You got a pink one, T?”

  “Pussy,” Dad mumbles as he walks out the door.

  Hair hanging wet, I gimp out of the bathroom as Patrick closes my door behind him as he walks out.

  “Freaking genius, right?” Brisa grins.

  I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, if he buys it.”

  When Dad picked me up like I was still five years old and had just busted my knee open while trying to keep up with Justice and Patrick on a bike and set me on the counter to inspect my ankle, I was a breath away from spilling the beans.

  The truth matters, and even though I didn’t lie about my ankle, it was deceitful to let him think my slipping caused this.

  Reality does need to play its part, as well, and the reality is that they treat me different because I’m a girl than they do Justice, my younger—okay, not much younger, but still—brother.

  When I insisted I didn’t need to go to the hospital and walked around, proving my point, which hurt like a bitch, I knew that the Holy Spirit, or the spirit of truth, kicked me square in my already aching ass, but I persevered. Then realization came to the gang bang of my conscience with a whispered reminder that Justice will find out the truth, and then I will be met with his judgmental glares until I either confess or he gets busy with something else.

  Note to self: hand pick the ‘something else’ of his liking and dangle it in front of his face like a big, fat, juicy steak.

  Also note to self: make that steak of the tall, blonde variety with attachment issues.

  Boys. I shake my head, inwardly sighing.

  So, now I sit, leg propped up, ankle iced, watching Mom, Dad, Patrick, and Brisa set the table for, as Dad calls it, Steel Sunday, feeling like I should be doing my part.

  When Momma Joe, our grandma, and her husband Thomas come in carrying two huge pans of lasagna and two baskets full of garlic knots, I feel even worse.

  “Where’s Truth and Justice?” Momma Joe asks as she kisses Patrick on the cheek after he takes the baskets from her.

  “Uncle Cyrus and Aunt Tara asked to trade up,” Patrick jokes.

  “Is that so?” She laughs as she makes her way to Brisa and kisses her, as well.

  “JT is on his way here. He spent the night with—”

  “Carter and Bella, honing his craft,” Momma Joe finishes for her. “So many of you now. It’s hard to keep track, but not impossible. And Truth?”

  “She fell and jacked up her ankle,” Brisa answers, looking down as she wraps silverware.

  “Over here, Momma Joe,” I call to her and wave.

  She quickly kisses Dad and Mom before walking over. She removes the cold compress, lifts my ankle, moves the pillow, sits down, and rests my leg on her lap.

  I lean in and give her two quick kisses then shrug. “Honestly, it’s no big deal.”

  She nods once as she looks over my bruises then looks back at me.

  You know the game never have I ever? Yeah, well, never have I ever lied to Momma Joe, and I can’t start now, so I say nothing at all.

  After a few seconds, she pats my knee. “You’ll need to get it looked at if the swelling doesn’t go down by school tomorrow. Don’t want a small fracture to heal wrong. It could mess up your dancing, Truth. And there’s nothing I love to watch more than you dancing.”

  I’ve yet to break the news to her that I don’t think dance will be in my future. It’s hard enough to admit to myself, let alone out loud to another.

  I nod. “No gym class tomorrow, so I’ll be sure to hit the clinic if it still looks like this after school.”

  She leans in and asks quietly, “But otherwise, you’re okay?”

  I nod. “Yeah, of course.”

  Within fifteen minutes, the table is set, the house is noisy, and everyone is seated around two tables, chatting as we wait for Justice, Bella, Luna, Tags, and his friend.

  Kiki sits next to me, looking exhausted but happier than I have ever seen her. Both she and her sister Bella are pregnant and seem to carry their babies up front. Bella is all belly, whereas Kiki seems to have twins up top and a soccer ball under her shirt.

  “Is it the baby hormones or all the newlywed sex?” I ask.

  She leans in, ignoring me completely, and asks, “Have fun last night?” She then casts her eyes to my ankle then looks back up at me, frowning.

  “It was interesting.”

  “Fun interesting, or a mesh up of drunken TikToks that ended in a messed-up ankle interesting?” she
whispers.

  We both look to the head of the table where we see Dad, sitting back, arms crossed over his chest, as he averts his eyes as if he hasn’t been suspiciously staring at me for the past hour.

  “Chat on our way to school tomorrow then?” she suggests.

  I nod.

  Through the ever-thickening cloud in my head and heart of lies and deceit, I hear the door open then Carter’s, aka Tags, voice comes through the entry. “He fell, little moon. He’s okay.”

  “But he needs a bunch of Band-Aids,” Luna says in her little voice with a tinge of demand.

  “I’m good, little bit.” The guest that Dad spoke of chuckles.

  “But you have whole bunches of boo-boos.”

  “Hand to God”—he laughs—“it’s all good. But you know what will make me feel better?”

  Luna asks, “What?”

  “Eating whatever smells so good.”

  “It’s basagna,” Luna tells him. “Come on.”

  He chuckles. “Lead the way.”

  Bella is the first to appear, with Luna behind her, still looking back.

  I get kicked under the table and look at Brisa, whose eyes are wide and nervous.

  “Ankle,” I hiss.

  She doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking straight ahead as she whispers under her breath, “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “What the hell is wrong—”

  “He’s here,” she whispers.

  I snap my head back, expecting to see one of the horsemen and should be relieved when I don’t, but it’s Manbun.

  I look back at her and whisper, “We are so fucked.”

  Kiki nudges me and whispers, “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sure you’ll know soon enough, and, Kiki, I’m moving in with you and Brand when shit hits the fan.”

  “Jesus, man,” Dad says, standing up. “Luna’s right; you do need a Band-Aid … or twenty.”

  “Big fall.” Manbun winks and gives Dad a bro hug. “Good to see you again.”

  I look across the table to Patrick, who scrubs his hand up his face then looks at me and smirks.