Bad Boys of Jameson High
Her Brawlers
Book 2
Taylor Blaine
Her Brawlers
She fought her way in. We made her ours.
Now our roles are threatened, because she’s left.
Gone.
We can’t fight what we can’t see.
We can’t love what isn’t there.
But I won’t take this lying down. I’ll fight for what’s mine. I’ll take her back, if I have to.
We are Jameson. Don’t forget it.
Chapter 1
Gray
Holy hell. Speeding through the night in a truck I wasn’t sure was steady enough to keep its tread as we plummeted down a long stretch of highway, taking turns wide, and rocketing over bumps and potholes, I was sure we were going to die.
The cop chasing us with his lights and sirens blaring was more sobering than I could’ve imagined. All the alcohol I’d chugged in response to my fight where I’d killed another girl had evaporated with the cool air pushing in through the rear sliding window.
My chest rose and fell as my breath became shallower and more rapid. I glanced at Stryker, certain he had lost his mind, or maybe he was drunk which didn’t make me feel better about the situation. Had he had anything to drink? For the first time since I’d met him, I hadn’t been focused on what he was doing. That attention was back on him, solely anchored in the masculine control he exuded.
Dark hair fell across his forehead. The old school green lighting from the dashboard of his 1957 Ford pickup didn’t do his silver eyes justice. He narrowed his gaze, his strong hands gripping the steering wheel with a tight determination that made my mouth dry.
I was definitely sober at that point. Honestly, every ounce of alcohol had fled at the first flash of the lights behind us.
My best-friend, Sara, sat beside me, heaving a gasp as we rounded yet another tight corner.
“Hold on!” Stryker’s shout filled the cab, reaching out to Gunner and Brock in the bed of the truck. I hoped they were still back there.
Throwing two bottles at the windshield of a cop car had put us all in danger. I wasn’t sure what they’d been thinking, but those Jameson boys sought revenge with persistence and sometimes no planning. The fact that they sought it over brights that weren’t turned off on a dark country road only made it seem more forbidden and rash.
I had no idea how we were going to get out of the situation we were in. I wasn’t sure we deserved to get away with anything.
Swallowing, I clutched at the waist seatbelt buckle holding me firmly in place as we jostled to the left, across the center line of the backwoods road and then to the right as we reclaimed our side.
The night couldn’t have been darker as the blue and red lights flashed around us, like a tractor beam determined to snag us in. The cop’s determination was no match for our desire to escape. All of us had too much to lose. Too much at stake.
Stryker didn’t slow as we hit the next corner. I’d learned in physics that if the center of gravity of an object topples, then the object will crash. We were that object and if Stryker wasn’t more careful, we would roll. Thankfully, we pulled ahead enough on that corner that Stryker used the next curve to put a big chunk of distance between us and the police car.
Stryker suddenly jerked the wheel to the right, bouncing over the edge of a ditch and into a half-hidden dirt road overrun with waist-high grasses and weeds. As the brush scraped along the bottom of the truck, bringing a gasp from my mouth with its loud noise, Stryker stared into the rearview mirror.
He turned off the engine, killing the lights and taking his foot off the brakes. In neutral, we continued coasting forward, disappearing deeper into the tall grasses.
The sudden dark was all-encompassing. I stared out the windshield, straight ahead, terrified to even turn around and see if the cop car slowed as it approached. Off in the distance, the siren blared and my stomach clenched.
If we were caught there, we had no where else to go. No where to run. Trees blocked the truck and if the cop stopped, we would be penned in. My claustrophobia reacted like I’d been penned into a cage with my hands tied behind my back. I took a shuddering breath, but kept it as controlled as possible.
Silence smothered us. I closed my eyes, the relief from the consuming darkness brief and minimal. I knew what it hid. Not much. Inside my own head, I could feel the grass and the trees pressing in on us. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Pressure increased as the sirens blared, getting closer, louder, closer, louder. I tightened my fists, clenching my fingers until I could feel my nails digging into the flesh of my palms. Biting my tongue, I refused to cry out in fear. I wasn’t going to let anyone know I was afraid.
“What if they find us?” Sara’s whisper made me snap my eyes open and I reached out, clenching her hand in mine. I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone. I shook my head to tell her not to talk, but she couldn’t see me in the dark.
No one moved. I could hear my heart pounding over the sound of wind moving in the treetops outside the rear sliding window for easy access to Gunner and Brock.
The sirens got louder.
With my head still turned toward Sara, I caught a glimpse of red and blue on the pine boughs around us. Grasses moved in the breeze and I hadn’t realized the rain had stopped in my panicked state.
“We’re going to jail.” Sara broke into a full-on sob. And even though I knew the cop in the car couldn’t hear, my blood still ran cold and I tightened my hold on her hand.
Louder yet, the sirens soared around us.
“Sh. Sh.” My mouth went dry. What was she thinking? She had to hold it together. She had to be more stable than she was being. Come on, Sara. I wanted to scream it at her, but that wouldn’t help anything.
Just as fast as the lights penetrated the trees and the clearing around us, they disappeared. The sound of the sirens drowned out the rumble of the engine of the speeding cruiser as it disappeared into the night.
I whipped around, watching the lights fade on the road. It seemed too good to be true. They’d passed us. My relief didn’t last. We couldn’t stay where we were for too long, but where could we go?
Ryker started the motor again, hitting reverse and peeling out of the dirt road backward. He tore onto the now-empty street facing the opposite way we’d driven in; opposite the way the police had chased.
Shifting into first, Stryker revved the engine and in seconds he shifted into second and then again into third. Each shift released another hold on the walls around me and I could feel myself breathing a little easier.
Wind ripped through the window. The tarp fluttered in the bed over the boys, the flapping audible in the pause between shifts. I hoped they were still alive back there. We hadn’t heard from them in a while. That was something we would have to check on when we found a stable place to stop and rest.
Stryker finally turned the lights on after we’d driven about a hundred yards, releasing some of the tension around my chest, but not all of it. How could I fully relax with the cops after us and a death on my hands?
Without using his blinker, Stryker turned left before we hit the next curve in the road. I hadn’t noticed the residential-style road on our first tear down that strip.
We thundered down the street, A farm-style house on a rise took the brunt of our headlights until Stryker turned down another deeply rutted driveway, without the bumpy ditch. Gravel lined two trails that ran parallel to each other which led the way for the four tires.
&n
bsp; Lilac bushes encroached on the drive like it wasn’t driven much and the heavy purple laden branches brushed against the truck, disappearing from the headlights as we passed under them. Another twenty yards and we pulled into a clearing strewn with car bodies and a barn with peeling paint. At least what we could see from our lights.
The barn or shop, I wasn’t quite sure, missed windows and doors in various places and a painted sign above the gaping maw of a two-car opening read Tiny’s Motors. The blue-white of an LED motion light tinged the still-wet grass with an over-bright whiteness that left shadows in stark relief. Light flooded the yard and Stryker shut off the truck’s lighting system.
He drove the truck off the driveway and around the rear-end of the large barn. He parked it between a Volkswagen van with missing windows and no tires and a Chevy Impala missing rear panels.
He shut off the engine, pulling the keys out of the ignition and tucking them into the visor above the steering wheel. Complete silence held us hostage as we gathered our thoughts.
The dark didn’t seem as intimidating this time. The cop hadn’t followed us as far as I could tell and Stryker finally turned his eyes toward me. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”
Here. Where was here and why did my momentary calm flee with the break in our eye contact?
“Everyone out. Gunner, grab the tarp and throw it over the front. Brock, do you have your pocket knife? Do some damage.” Stryker stepped from the truck and bent down. After a minute, he stood back up. He jerked his chin at me, his eyes hard. He wanted me out of the truck. Got it.
The light from the front of the barn gave me enough illumination I could see without feeling like I was on display. Nudging Sara with my knee I started sliding toward the passenger door, opposite the driver’s side.
Sara seemed frozen and it took a couple more nudges before she moved like she pushed through sludge. She slid from the bench-style seat and I followed, falling from the height to slippery grass where I stumbled to the side, striking my ankle on a chunk of cement protruding from a pile of broken concrete.
I didn’t cry out. It didn’t hurt that bad, not compared to everything else. We had other things on our minds and a bumped foot wasn’t a big enough deal. Sara closed the door quietly and we rushed to the back of the truck, crossing our arms over our chests as we watched Stryker and his cousins.
The air was both humid and chilly, creating a clinging trait to the cold.
Stryker held a rock the size of a cereal bowl. Brock ripped a corner of a canvas cloth draped across the side of the Impala and handed the jagged square to Stryker. He wrapped the cloth around the rock, and hefted it toward the window, breaking the glass with a muffled snap.
My eyes widened and I bit my lip. Why were they ruining their truck? Stryker nodded toward Brock who whipped out a knife with a shining edge. He bent down, shoving it tightly into the curve of the tire. He wiggled it side to side and stabbed it again, making the same side to side motion as he pulled it out.
Gunner kicked his boot into the grass, tearing aside the top layer of sod, exposing mud and rocks. He bent down, grabbing up a handful of wet dirt. Stepping back, he pitched a handful at the side of the truck. The dirt landed with a thud. He stepped close and smeared it around with his hand.
Finished damaging two tires, Brock copied Gunner’s movements and dirtied the truck with a thoroughness I couldn’t help but admire.
I glanced at Stryker. His somber expression gave me pause. After a moment, he moved to the front of the truck and the hood popped up, blocking him from view.
The grind of metal on metal pulled me toward the front of the victimized vehicle.
Drops of rain sprinkled around us in little silver drops that caught the light just before it turned off. Motion lights weren’t on long before they shut down to wait for another movement to trigger them. The lack of light wasn’t as disturbing this time around. We weren’t running from the cops in the immediate moment and my feet were solidly on the ground.
Stryker bent at the waist, putting the battery he’d pulled from under the hood on the ground and shoving it under the front of the truck. As a final measure, he kicked grass around the core. He stood, calling out without being too loud, “Gunner, grab the license plates. We gotta get the girls out of the rain.” He shot a glance at me then disappeared behind the hood.
I moved to rest my hip on the front panel of the truck so I could see him, watch what he did in the sprinkling weather.
He reached into the cavity of the engine compartment and yanked out a wire, pocketing the piece like he would return. After staring into the engine space for a drawn-out moment, Stryker slowly lowered the hood but didn’t close it. He left it ajar by about a foot, wedging a piece of wood he grabbed from the ground into the corner space to hold the hood up.
Brock pulled the tarp out, half-draping it across the back of the truck as if to cover the vehicle but not really caring. He nodded to Stryker and Gunner and they turned to us.
Without a word, Gunner led the way around the side of the barn, away from the truck, carrying two license places sandwiched together.
I studied Stryker as he waited for me to fall into step behind Gunner. What was going through his mind? True, the cops were initially after the boys in the back because of the bottles, but what would have happened if they’d caught us? They would have discovered underage drinking and a girl wanted for killing another fighter in Washington with a warrant out for her arrest as well as revenge directed by the Russians – if not yet, then soon.
Who knew how many cops were in the Russians’ pockets? The potential for corruption hit every level.
There was nothing safe about anything we did or were doing. The thought alone made me nauseous. That and the alcohol I was no longer buzzing from but my body still carried around. Yeah, I wasn’t going to drink again any time soon. My regret mingled with the aftereffects of drinking.
Before following Gunner around the side of the barn, still protected by the darkest of the shadows, I braced my arm on the scratchy wall and leaned over. I heaved, trying to stay quiet as the many drinks I’d had over the last few hours worked to be expunged from my body.
My limbs wobbled and I did everything in my power to stand straight as I pushed off the wall. I couldn’t fall yet. I couldn’t give into my weakness, my doubt, my fear, and the terror coursing through me. Not yet. We weren’t out of danger yet.
A strong hand reached out, the heat on my back comforting without the zing of physical awareness. I glanced back, finding Brock rubbing the space between my shoulder blades, concern on his features. He nodded. His normally taciturn and angry expressions replaced with a reassuring tilt to his lips. “You’re doing good. We’re almost there.”
How had he known? How had he recognized my need when I wasn’t even sure what that need was? He’d reached out, bringing me comfort in a time when I doubted comfort could be found.
I accepted his offer, nodding as I turned back to follow Gunner’s disappearing form.
In front of the barn, I glanced around. The motion light had tripped on again with Gunner’s movements, displaying the same scene we’d driven onto but from a different angle.
The barn and car corpses were at the bottom of a gently sloping rise that crested to a flat plateau where a humble rancher-style home stood guard. A weakly glowing orange porch light illuminated the front patio, earmarking the front door and setting itself as a beacon for the rest of the property.
We didn’t head toward the house as Gunner motioned for me to follow him into the barn.
How could that be a safe move since the barn looked like it was missing more wood than glass? I followed him anyway. Where was I going to go? The forest around the barn? The cops would find me just as soon as a bear or whatever else lived in the trees.
The smell of mouse waste hit me with the force of a gas bomb. Eyes watering from the strength of the ammonia odor, I pressed the back of my hand to my nose as we got closer to the door.
H
e wanted me to go in there, too? Where it stank to holy hell? Goosebumps covered my arms as I followed Gunner inside, my shoes crunching on gravel. I glanced down, trying to discern what I walked on. A part of me worried it was the skulls of mice because the smell was so strong.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I realized I walked on a dirt floor. The flooring wasn’t even concrete. Did the barn count as a building then? Without proper flooring was I essentially inside or was it more of a shelter than a barn?
I had focused on the wrong things, my thoughts struggling to stay away from the realities I ran from.
A muffled noise behind me drew my attention to Sara. She followed close to my back, holding her hand over her mouth and nose in weak imitation of my own stance.
“What is that?” She obviously had no problems speaking in the dark.
“Mice. It’s not a big deal.” Brock spoke behind me, answering her question as if he really believed his words that it was no big deal the barn was swimming in mice.
My leg muscles cramped at the thought of how many mice it must have taken to make that strong of a smell. A breeze wafted through the broken windows and open doorway, taking the smell out with it. The brief abatement allowed me to drag in another deep breath before the smell gathered again.
“Come on.” Gunner whispered as he stood at the bottom of a set of stairs. He pointed up and glanced at me, his eyes full of questions. Questions I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t sure where we were going or what we were doing, but I could see I had nothing else to do but follow their directions. For the next few days, I was nothing if not beholden to them.
That rubbed me the wrong way, but I gritted my teeth and gingerly stepped up the wooden slatted steps.
Each foot placement made a creak I was sure could be heard across the county. My hands shook as I reached out and gripped the makeshift railing to help me climb. The steps turned sharply to the left as they traced along the wall of the barn. In seconds we’d reached the top and I stopped, staring at the loft-style room in front of me, illuminated in part by the still-on motion light out the window leading to where we stood.
Her Brawlers: A high school bully romance (Bad Boys of Jameson High Book 2) Page 1
