I drain my glass, set it down, and stand.
“Let’s go make some trouble,” I say, and the Boys follow.
The bar is loud, full of second-stringers trying to be relevant and girls that want to see how close they can get to the Feral Boys before they get bit. I pick the booth at the back, where the light is shit and the waitstaff knows to bring me two whiskeys before I even open my mouth.
Colton is already there, hood up, eyes on the door. Julian slides in a minute later, laughing too loud at his own joke, and Rhettbrings up the rear. We’re a fucking cliché, but at least we look good doing it.
He looks frazzled. Between the Board and Isolde, he needs this. He needs a night out.
Tonight, the bar is extra tense. Word’s out about the guy I beat half to death, about Dahlia, and every asshole with a chip on his shoulder wants to prove they’re not afraid to take a swing at the big dogs. Julian is the first to spot trouble; he points it out with his chin, subtle, but I notice it instantly.
Three football idiots, all with the same haircut, the same square faces, the same desperate need to be remembered for something. The leader has a chin like a fist and a letterman jacket that’s seen better days. They’re drunk enough to think this is their moment.
They start slow—loud laughs, pointed toasts in our direction, the classic “I could take him” routine. Colton ignores it, but Rhett’s lips go tight and he starts tapping his finger on the glass.
It’s Julian who breaks first. He stands, says nothing, just a slow stretch, and walks to the bar to order another round. The footballers ramp up, one of them slurring something about “mob princesses and puppy guards.” I know it’s meant for my ears, and I know I’m supposed to ignore it.
But I don’t.
Rhett gives me a look, but I raise my glass and turn just enough to catch the leader’s eye.
He takes the bait and stands, his buddies thumping him on the back. The walk over is pure theater: slow, chest out, a little sway in the step. He stops at our booth, looks down at me, and tries to remember whatever script he’s been rehearsing all day.
“Hey, Bambam,” he says, “you dating or just humping the new girl for show?”
I glance up, lazy, and let my lip curl just a bit. “What’d you say?”
He smells like mint and vodka. His eyes are too wide and glassy. He latches onto the table, leaning down so we are almost eye-level. “I asked if you’re gonna claim that mafia bitch or if you just fuck her in the quad for extra credit.”
The bar goes dead silent.
Julian is already grinning, hands folded, eyes bright in excitement. Colton looks bored, but I see his hands curl under the edge of the table. Rhett slides his sleeve up, like he’s about to write something down.
I stand. Faster than he expects. He rocks back, off balance, and I push my glass into his chest, hard enough to make him stagger. A wet stain spreads across his shirt, close enough to the school crest that you know it ruins his whole vibe of being an Academy bitch.
“Careful,” I say, just above normal volume. “You’re leaking.”
He swings. It’s clumsy, all shoulder, telegraphed from a mile off. I duck it, catch his elbow, and drive his face into the edge of the table. The sound is wet and sharp—something cartilage, maybe a tooth. Blood sprays the front of my favorite t-shirt as his head lifts off the edge. His friends lunge in, but Julian is already moving, tripping the first idiot while Colton kneecaps the second with the flat of a beer bottle.
Rhett stays seated, watching, not even blinking. He’s a sick fuck, but he likes when I do the dirty work.
I haul the ringleader upright by the collar. His nose is a fucked mess, snot and blood leaking onto my hand. He gurgles, tries a knee, but he’s weak now. I lean down, lips at his ear.
“If you ever speak about her again, I’ll rip out your fucking tongue and feed it to you.”
He whimpers. I let him drop, and he crumples to the sticky floor.
The bar is dead silent, every eye on us. I glance at the bartender, who raises a brow but makes no move to call anyone.
Colton wipes his hand on a bar napkin, eyes never leaving the bodies on the ground. “Subtle,” he says.
Rhett flicks his glass once, then downs what’s left like it’s lemonade.
The footballers limp off, the leader cradling his face, the others dragging their sorry asses behind him.
Rhett glances at me, smile lazy. “You finished?”
“For now.”
