“Nah, man. I’m just saying—respect. You guys showed up today.” Marcus’s smile was sharp. “Even with your little diversity hire over here leading the charge.”
The entire porch seemed to still.
“The fuck did you just say?” Remy’s voice was deadly quiet.
Conversations nearby faltered and people turned to look.
“Marcus,” Collins said, a warning.
But Marcus was already too far gone, alcohol and ego mixing into something ugly. “What? I’m just saying, it’s great that you guys are so... inclusive. Really progressive.”
“Walk away,” Liam said, his voice flat. “Right now.”
I wanted to grab Marcus. and pull him back. To do something. But instead I stood frozen, watching it all unfold.
Marcus turned to Liam, grinning. “Or what, Moore? You gonna cry about it? Maybe run to your little faggot friend here for support?”
The word hit hard, not just to Remy but me too.
I saw Remy’s face change—saw the flash of hurt before it turned to rage. Then Tyler moved forward—the whole porch was tense like a wire pulled too tight.
And then... Liam’s fist connected with Marcus’s face.
The sound was sickening—bone on bone, sharp and wet. Marcus went down hard, his beer exploding across the deck in a spray of foam. For a split second, everything hushed.
The music still pounded, but the porch went silent—bodies frozen, conversations stopped mid-word. That terrible moment of stillness before all hell breaks loose.
Liam stood over him, knuckles split and bleeding. “I’ve been dying to do that.”
And then... all hell broke loose.
Braden swung at Tyler. Someone from Riverside shoved Collins. Bodies crashed together, fists flying, people screaming. The crowd pressed in, some trying to back away, others pulled out their phones to film. The keg tipped over, beer flooding across the porch. A table went down, red cups scattering, bouncing.
I tried to back up, to get out of the way—
But someone grabbed my shirt and spun me around.
A Riverside guy I didn’t recognize—big, probably six-two, definitely a rower from the varsity boat. His face was twisted with anger, and he wound up to swing.
I braced for impact, but then I swung back.
My fist caught him in the jaw—not clean, glancing off, but enough to make him stumble. Pain exploded through my knuckles.
He came at me again, and we grappled, crashing into the railing, and my ribs hit the wood hard enough to make me gasp.
I shoved him back into someone else and they crashed to the ground, got my feet under me—
And someone else was on me. Their hands grabbed my jacket and pulled me into the chaos.
I caught a glimpse of Liam across the deck—he had someone pinned against the porch railing, blocking a punch.
More bodies pressed in. Someone’s elbow caught my cheek. I tasted blood.
Then a Riverside guy—different one, bigger—broke through the crowd heading straight for me, fist already cocked back.
Before I could react, Liam was there.
He caught the guy’s wrist mid-swing and yanked him back hard enough that he stumbled.
