“You gonna let your old man carry you out of here?”
I’d prefer Caymen do it, but he was occupied.
“Okay,” I agreed.
Then he scooped me up like I remembered occasionally when I was young and hurt.
“Hey, get your licks in, but remember what we talked about,” he called to Caymen as we moved past the fight that was still going strong. If by ‘strong’ you meant that Caymen was basically beating Lance’s face in.
“What did you talk about?” I asked as we moved through the door.
“Not killing him,” my father admitted as we walked into a narrow hallway, then through a door to the outside.
It was muggy and hot, but it felt so good to be outside after not being sure I ever would again, that I didn’t even mind.
“Noa!” Caymen called, his voice just this side of desperate.
My father paused, turned, and waited for Caymen to catch up.
“Noa…” Caymen said, looking wrecked.
“Here,” my father said, gently transferring me into Caymen’s arms. He pulled me tighter, almost to the point of pain, but it felt so good to be held by him again that I didn’t even mind.
“You’re going to crush her,” my father objected for me.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Caymen assured me, pressing the side of his face to my forehead.
“Can I trust you to take care of our girl?” my father asked, getting a nod from Caymen as my heart expanded in my chest at his words. “Good. I got some shit to do. I’ll check in soon,” he said, reaching out, touching the side of my head for a second, then walking off.
“I think he likes me,” Caymen said.
“I think you’re right.”
“I’m gonna go get you to Ama again,” he said as he started to walk away from the building.
“On your bike?” I asked, dubious.
“No, Dixon and Che are here with Che’s car.”
It wasn’t just Dixon and Che. Almost the whole club had arrived—each of them lined up and waiting. It seemed like their shoulders relaxed one by one when they looked at me.
“Are you hurt anywhere else? Anywhere new?”
“My ribs and hip hurt a little, but nothing serious.”
“He dropped you on your side.”
“That explains it. I’m okay. We were mostly just… talking.”
He grunted at that as we got to Che’s car—not one of the fancy sports cars he was known for, but a family-appropriate midsize SUV.
“Hey, Noa,” Dixon greeted me as he opened the door.
“Hey, Dixon.”
“Planning on getting a snack?” It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize I still had the plastic fork shoved in the waistband of my pants.
“Eye-gouger,” I explained.
