“For now,” he mutters under his breath. His gaze catches on me for the smallest of seconds.
“This is Violet,” Lexie says. “Violet, this is Ethan.”
“Nice to meet you.” I offer my hand for him to shake, and he takes it.
“Nice to meet you, too, Violet.” He runs his thumb along the back of my hand. “You from The Drift?”
“Mm-hmm.” I let his hand go and lace my fingers in front of me. “Lexie and I are neighbors.”
“And best friends,” Lexie interjects, tossing her arm around my shoulders.
His eyes drag down my body, and the look makes me feel…I don’t know. Exposed, maybe?
“Guess that means we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” he murmurs.
“Guess so.”
“You work at The Body Shop, too?” he prods, mentioning the strip club where Lexie works.
I shake my head. “I work at The Bean Scene by campus.”
“Shame.” He tsks. “Would’ve loved to see you on stage.”
My nose wrinkles, but I quickly replace it with an awkward smile. What in the world am I supposed to say to that? Like…really? To be clear, there’s nothing wrong with working at a strip club, but hearing your best friend’s older brother mention how he’d like to watch you dance half-naked on stage isn’t exactly the best pick-up line I’ve ever heard, and it’s not like I can knee him in the balls and walk away, promising to keep a wide berth from now on. So where does that leave me?
Maybe it’s nerves or something due to the pending fight, but Ethan’s kind of an ass. Okay, he’s totally an ass. Or maybe I’m biased because every man I’ve ever met is an ass so because hehas an extra appendage between his legs, it automatically earns him the label.Ass.
I stare at the side of his face, well aware that if I'm caught, he’ll probably offer to let me blow him, which will wind up with my knee to his balls, which is the last thing either of us needs. Hell, he might even throw me out of this little…event. Not that he technically has the power to do something like that. Not that I know of, anyway. And not that I care, either. Not really. When you’re used to being on everyone’s shit list despite your best efforts, the sting seems to shrink with every situation, though I would feel bad if he forced Lexie to go home, too.
I turn back to the fight and fold my arms.
“You think he’ll still show?” one of Ethan’s friends asks.
“Jag Off?” Ethan grins, his arrogance so potent I swear I can taste it. “Yeah. He’ll show.”
“Jag Off?” I murmur to Lexie. I keep my voice low so as not to rock the boat or draw more attention to myself than necessary. It’s not that I don’t belong here, but…okay. Yeah. I totally don’t belong here.
Lexie’s stare stays pinned on the fight in front of us, but she tilts her head closer to me. “Hmm?”
“Is that what he calls Jagger? Jag Off?”
She smirks. “Apparently. It’s fitting, don’t you think?”
After my singular experience with the asshole? Yeah. Very.
Ethan bounces on the balls of his feet, like he’s already prepping for his time to shine in the ring. Part of me wants to ask if it’s the norm. If the bouncing is what every fighter does. It’s not like I have a lot of experience here. I’m not usually a brutal person or anything, but when karma refuses to be on your side for the majority of your life, seeing it dished out to someone else—someone who wholly deserves it—I guess I’m intrigued. So sue me.
“Are you nervous?” I ask Lexie. I keep my voice down so our conversation stays between us. “You know, about your brother fighting or whatever?”
She glances at her big brother, then shakes her head. “Not in the slightest.”
“But you haven’t seen Jag Off fight,” I remind her.
“I don’t need to. My brother’s been brawling for as long as I can remember. Besides, it’s Jag Off,” she says with a quiet laugh. “The guy was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Being raised on the streets is…different. You know that.”
She’s right. I do.
As the air shifts around us, Lexie’s brother and friends grow more and more tense until I swear I can taste it. I search the warehouse for the reason behind the sudden shift and find the culprit. Dark skin. Dark hair cropped close to his head. Dark eyes. Roman Stone. He’s from The Drift. Lives a few streets away from me, though he’s rarely ever there. I doubt he knows that particular tidbit. That we’re almost neighbors. I don’t mind. The less I stand out, the better. Add in the few years separating our ages, and I’d be surprised if he recognized me at all. The man’s a Harden brother through and through, even if his area code tells a different story.
