“Nobody talks shit about mine, Em.Nobody.”
Mine…?
The statement catches me so off guard that my grip on his hands loosens and he jerks free to brush past me. I don’t recoverfast enough to catch his right hook before it lands on the guy’s jaw, breaking skin, and spraying more blood all over.
The momentum sends the guy to the ground with a yell and Tristen hovers right over him.
“Keep your fucking mouthshut. You hear me?”
There is a groan from the guy on the ground, some kind of affirmative, but I don’t catch any of it as a wave of nausea rolls right over me so hard that I barely fight it back.
There’s blood … it’s everywhere.
I swallow back the bile that rises and turn away. Ball my fists up. Ignore the way they crack with caked blood.
“Emmett.”
I don’t stop walking, even when Hatley starts following me.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” I sniff, angling away so he doesn’t see my face. “You could have stopped him.”
A sound bursts from deep in my throat and I swallow it back.
“Sometimes shit gets handled the old-fashioned way out here, man.”
“Then why yell at him to stop, if this isnormal?” I scoff the last part, and it’s watery.
“Becausenormallywe don’t go fists first. But then I realized who it was, and I know he’s a dick. Dude deserves it. Tristen always has good reasons to do the shit that he does. Hebelievesin it. Therefore … I trust him.”
My eyes automatically roll, and it dislodges a tear I’m quick to swipe away.
Then what the fuck is he doing with me?
Chapter 25
Emmett
It took hours tountangle the bikes and patch up all the injuries from the crash.
I’m pretty sure I even caught sight of Lemon at one point while I waited for them, but the second I tried to get Hatley’s attention, he got lost in the crowd.
Thankfully, no one was hurt severely according to Hatley, though I’d say a broken arm and toe, tons of burns and cuts, are pretty severe to me.
Just as I don’t get why it was Hatley and Tristen that had people lined up in front of them to get the wounds addressed before we finally made it back to Tristen’s house.
Did no one else carry Band-Aids and alcohol pads?
“Ow, watch it, fucker,” Tristen hisses and Hatley just … laughs. Presses the white pad to his brow again despite the protests. “Hatley.”
He snorts and squirts something from a wide, plastic syringe into the cut on his friend’s head.
I don’t know why I watch.
Watching them … hurts.
“If you don’t stop, I’m gonnastitch it.”
Brown eyes find mine, and I freeze.
