A glance at Rhys tells me this is a powder keg of a situation. My antihero is not happy—at all. The scene from theChronicles of Riddickflashes in my mind, where the titular character kills a man with a teacup. I can’t help but think that if these idiots don’t pipe the fuck down, Rhys is going to murder one—or possibly all of them—with the sticky cardboard cotton candy stick.
Damn, and this day was going so well.
Leave it to dudebros to ruin a good thing.
“You got a problem with me?”
Oh, no.
Dudebro #1 did not just ask Rhys Ravenstone that. Please tell me he’s not that stupid.
“Yo, man, I asked you a fucking question.”
He did.
I flick my gaze to Rhys from scrawny Dudebro #1, and the dichotomy of them is frighteningly hilarious. Rhys, dressed head to foot in black, looks like he can break this guy in half with one hand. Dudebro #1, with his long, shaggy blond hair and a sad, patchy goatee, is wearing the ugliest palm tree-printed surf shorts. They are barely even the same species.
“I heard you the first time,” Rhys says smoothly. Way too calm.
“So why the hell didn’t you answer me?” Dudebro #1’s laugh is slightly nasal, sort of like Spicoli fromFast Times at Ridgemont High.
“Because I don’t speak to the dead.”
Oh, Fuuuck.
He jabs a thumb at Rhys. “Did you hear what this asshole said to me?”
Dudebro #2 nods, his buzzed brown hair not doing him any favors. He’s showing off some seriously shitty tattoos by wearing that white wife beater and loudly tropical surf shorts. “Just ‘cuz he’s big, that don’t make him tough.”
“Big man gotta big mouth,” Dudebro #3 chimes in as if he should add to this shitshow of a situation. What he should do is shut up. He’s what, a buck ten soaking wet? And he’s my height. He’s rubbing his hands together and sucks his teeth before saying, “Three against one don’t make for good odds, bud.”
“Now, look, we’re all just?—”
“How about you mind your fucking business, Grandpa?” Dudebro #2 says to an older gentleman who tries to calm this escalating situation.
Subtly, Rhys pushes me behind him.Farbehind him. He steps forward and, with a lightning swipe of his fist, knocks the phone out of Dudebro #1’s hand. It hits the pavement, shattering on impact. “Consider your picture deleted,” he says to the girl whose photo the jerkoff snapped without her consent.
“You’re a dead man,” Dudebro#1 threatens. Then he makes the colossal mistake of peering around Rhys to nod at me. “You and your fucking girl.”
Oh, Jesus. Oh, good Lord in Heaven.
Bad move.
Bad, bad move.
There’s a stillness to Rhys even as a commotion breaks out around us. Parents rush to get their children out of harm’s way. I mean, shit, all we wanted to do was come to Reece Park to eat some crappy fried food and ride some roller coasters. Not end up in a fight with three little dickheads trying to be big, brave men.
Rhys, his dark eyes razor sharp and fixed on Dudebro #1, taps his chin. “You get one swing. Make it count because I’m going to damage you so badly, break you so completely, I will leave a scar on your soul that will last for eons. Do you understand? Do you understand the amount of pain I’m going to inflict on your body? You will never recover.”
Okay, even I feel the need to pee a little.
The guy lets out a little laugh—anervouslittle laugh. I can’t say I blame him. “What, are you crazy or something?”
“Or something,” Rhys replies, his voice lethally smooth.
“Do it,” Dudebro #3 goads his friend. “Hit him.”
But the guy shakes his head. “I’m not hitting him.”
