The little heart at the end does nothing to calm the storm building inside me. Brett. Fucking theater Brett with his stupid fucking scarves and his pretentious coffee orders. The guy's been sniffing around Reese since he became a TA for her contemporary dance class.
"Problem?" Copeland asks, coming up behind me.
"Nothing I can't handle," I say, already shoving my shit into my bag.
Declan crosses his arms. "You two aren't done cleaning up your blood from my mats."
I toss a couple hundred-dollar bills at his chest. "That should cover it."
He watches it fall to the floor, then shakes his head. "Your daddy know you're still fighting like a commoner?"
"Mydaddywould tell you to mind your fucking business," I snap, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
Copeland follows me out to the parking lot, still wiping blood from his face with a towel. I don't slow down for him, my mind already racing with thoughts of Reese and that fucking theater major.
"Ghost, hold up," he calls, jogging to catch up as I reach my bike. "You sure you don't want me to ride out with you? We could make this interesting."
I swing my leg over my Aprilia, jamming the key into the ignition. "Nah, I got this. I'll see you later."
"Your loss," he shrugs, the predatory smile still playing on his lips despite the swelling. "Try not to kill the kid. Your cousin’s junkyard dog said we can’t dispose of anything for awhile, which is really fucking annoying."
I flip him off as I rev the engine; the bike comes to life beneath me. The vibration between my legs does nothing to calm the storm brewing. I slam my helmet on and tear out of the parking lot, leaving Copeland standing there with his fucking bloody smirk.
The tracker leads me to some pretentious gastropub downtown, the kind with Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling and overpriced burgers named after literary characters. I pull up across the street, scanning the sidewalk until I spot them.
Reese is standing outside, her body wrapped in tight black leggings that make my mouth water and an oversized cropped sweater that slips off one shoulder. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face as she laughs at something Brett says. Fucking Brett with his stupid man-bun and his douchebag scarf even though it's barely October. The annoyance I have at the fact he’s breathing is at an all time high. He’s lucky I haven’t fucking slaughtered him already. The thought makes my eye twitch.
I rev the engine, drawing their attention as I pull up to the curb. Brett's face falls when he sees the bike, recognition dawning in his eyes. Good, I like that he’s fucking scared.
I flip up my visor, my eyes locking with Reese's. "Get on."
Her mouth drops open, her hazel eyes widening in surprise. "Ramsey? What are you?—"
"I said get on the fucking bike, Reese," I repeat, my voice leaving no room for argument.
Brett steps forward, trying to look bigger than his lanky frame allows. "Dude, we're in the middle of dinner with friends."
I don't even acknowledge him, keeping my eyes fixed on Reese. "Now, star."
A flush creeps up her neck at the nickname, andI can see the battle playing out across her face—irritation at being ordered around warring with something else.
She crosses her arms, cocking one hip out. "You can't just show up and demand I leave, Rams. I have plans."
"Plans change," I say, patting the seat behind me. "I need you."
Those three words shift something in her expression. She's never been able to resist when I say I need her, even if it's just to help me study.
She hesitates for a second, her eyes darting between Brett and me. Then she sighs, giving me that look—the one that says I'm being difficult but she's going with it anyway.
"Fine," she says, turning to Brett. "I'll catch up with you later, okay?"
I'm already swinging my leg over the bike, standing to face them both. Brett looks like he wants to argue, but he's smart enough to know better. I can still taste blood in my mouth, and I'm itching for another fight.
"You sure?" Brett asks her, completely ignoring me. "We can give you a ride home later."
I don't wait for her to answer. I shrug off my riding jacket, the cool night air hitting my sweaty skin through my tank top. I step toward her, holding the jacket open.
"Arms," I command.
