“What did you say to him?”
This is about to get ugly. I glance around the party. This isn’t our typical crowd—these kids tell the cops everything. I notice several people watching, but we’re not a spectacle yet. We’ll have time to run. The 7-Eleven is only a few blocks, and we can call Travis for a ride from there.
Casey smirks and sets her beer cup on the side of the keg. “Fine,” she says. “You really want to know? I asked Travis if he was done slumming with his Mexican whore.”
My mouth falls open, and behind Casey, the guy laughs.
“Excuse me?” Retha asks, and her accent seems to thicken. “I’m from Puerto Rico, bitch!”
Casey has obviously lost her mind, talking to Retha like that. But then I see her side glance, and I follow her gaze. Damn.
Casey’s looking at a couple of girls, big ones, who are on their way over to jump us from behind. One of them has a large stick in her hand.
I exhale and roll my shoulders. Guess she’s not as stupid as she looks. She’s a fighter too. Well, here we go.
Without a word, I swing out my arm and punch Casey right in the eye. She flies back off her feet and I feel an immediate vibration shoot up my arm. I hit her pretty damn hard. She’s on her ass, screaming.
“Run!” I yell to Retha, and grab her hand. We start for the field, and I glance back and see the two big girls take off after us. We might get our asses beat tonight after all.
“You knocked that bitch out,” Retha says with a loud laugh as we push our way through the corn, people yelling behind us.
“She had backup,” I say between gasps. “We were about to get jumped.”
Stalks of corn whip my arms, and I know I’ll be covered in scratches, but my adrenaline keeps me numb and pain free. I had no choice. If I hadn’t hit Casey, her friends would have beat us down right there. At least the hit was a distraction to get us out of there. But hell, my knuckles hurt.
“They’re getting closer,” Retha says.
“Take a left,” I tell her, and cut that way, knowing the street is just beyond the rows.
“They’re heading for the road,” one of the girls behind us calls out.
They’re going to catch us. I curse and run faster.
Retha is at my heels as we break through the rows and onto a deserted road. Getting beat down on concrete is no fun—I’ve been there before with Retha. Not too long ago either. In fact, I have a scar on my chin.
Heaving in breaths, Retha points to the other side of the street. “7-Eleven?” she asks, half bent over.
“Never make it,” I say back. My lungs burn, like they might explode.
“Never say never,” Retha calls, and bolts.
I groan and run after her. Soon the voices behind us start to drift away. They might have gotten turned around in the corn, or they might just not have the stamina to chase us this far. Rich girls aren’t used to running for their lives. We are.
By the time we get to the 7-Eleven parking lot, I need to die. But I need a drink more.
“Let’s see if they’ll give us water,” I gasp, leaning over to rest my palms on my knees. I wait a moment, and then straighten. As we walk through the sliding door into the shop, the bright lights amplify every scrape and scratch. Stupid corn.
The woman behind the register eyes us suspiciously as we stagger in, probably looking like a couple of drunks as we head for the soda fountain.
“Can we have water?” I ask the cashier, taking the smallest cup and holding it out.
“Fifty cents.”
“For water?” I ask. Is she kidding?
“Hey, Sutton.”
My stomach flips and I slowly turn. Cameron Ramsey. While my hair is plastered to my head with sweat, dirt and blood coating my arms, Cameron looks perfect. He’s wearing a button-down shirt with khakis turned up at the ankle, no socks. His hair is tucked behind his ears, and even from here, I can smell the light scent of his cologne. Retha’s right—he is getting hotter.
