Page 33 of No Romeo
Wolf was already halfway down the aisle with two cases of beer tucked under his armpits, a bumpy outline around his waist where he’d evidently crammed more cans down his pants.
All I had to do was move in a little closer, twirl a piece of her hair around my finger, and tell her how hot I thought she was. Simple. Easy. Definitely worth the free beer.
I leaned over the counter.Medusa. This was complete and utter bullshit. If I didn’t man the hell up, the second that bell jingled, Wolf was screwed.
Clenching my jaw, I dragged my gaze over the clerk’s orange and purple work shirt. Distraction came in many forms, and while flirting had been my go-to, I was also a magician when it came to confusing the hell out of someone…
“Orange is really your color,” I said, and she smiled. All I had to say was that it brought out the color of her eyes or some other terrible pick-up line. But I couldn’t even muster the ability to do that. So, what did I settle on? “And I really have a thing for Oompa Loompas.”
That smile dropped like a turd from a rhino. Then the bell over the door dinged.
Shit! Just as her attention swung toward the front, I jumped in the opposite direction of the door and threw up my arms. “Oompa Loompa, doompity da. If you have a pussy, you will go far. You can…ride a…co-o-o-ck, too. Like the Oompa Loompa, duppity do.” I utilized jazz hands for the grand finale, and while she was definitely distracted…What in the actual hell had Lola Stevens reduced me to? A jazz-hand-flinging, Willy Wonka-singing ballbag instead of a motherfucking player.
I shot out of the door, booking it to the pumps.
Wolf glanced over the roof of his truck. One of his bushy eyebrows lifted. “Did I just see you…” He threw his hands up and wiggled his fingers on a cackle. “That whiffle ball bat injury really screwed you up, dude.”
Those assholes blamed that whiffle ball bat for everything. This had nothing to do with a few concussions and everything to do with Lola Stevens.
“Shut up, man.” I reached for the side door just as Ethan Taylor’s bright yellow Z28 Camaro screeched into the gas station. Lights bounced over the passenger side door as it opened, and Max Harford, King Golden Dick of Barrington, climbed out.
They only came to this side of town to use a shitty fake ID or to start crap with us. And the last time they had done that… it hadn’t ended too well for any of those date-rapey shitheads.
Max’s gaze landed on us, and he froze.
“Hear your girl’s back in town, Hunt.” Ethan rounded the front of his car, a cocky grin in place.
The little cocksucker must have felt a false sense of safety in a public place. Lucky for me, unlucky for him, this was Dayton. No one gave a shit about a little fistfight.
“And I hear Lola’s a little loose,” he said.
I didn’t even realize I’d moved away from Wolf’s truck until I had Ethan by the nape of his neck, smashing his face into the pump.
“Dude…” Wolf snatched me away, and Ethan crumpled to the oil-stained concrete. “We’re on a busy street.”
I kicked Ethan’s side, then spat on him. “Just so you know, I wipe my ass with that jersey of yours that I stole last year.”
I started toward Wolf’s truck, glancing at Harford still cowering behind the passenger-side door of the sports car. Guess he didn’t want a second helping of the ass beating he took last year.
Wolf laid into me on the way back to the house. Officer Jacobs was looking for any reason to arrest any of us and while even I could admit my beating Ethan’s ass on the corner of a busy highway wasn’t the smartest decision, when it came to Lola, there was no reining in my temper. Never had been.
The first punch I threw was in kindergarten. Some snot-nosed little boy pulled her sweatpants down when she was bent over the toy box. Blood went all over the nap mats, and half the class cried. From then on, most of them were scared of me, which meant not only did they leave me alone, but they also left her alone, too.
Wolf’s headlights shined over the house when he turned into my drive. God, he was still going at me about jail when he cut the engine.
“Lucky for us, Barrington dicks are too pussy to turn us in,” I said.
“What about when they’re not.”
I kicked open the door. Thick heat crept into the truck before I got out and went to the back to grab the beer. “Zepp hospitalized Harford, and they all said it was gang violence from some unknown gang. None of them mentioned our names. I mean, how many times have we beat their asses, Wolf?”
His shadow rounded the truck. “How many times have they thrown the first punch?” He snatched the rest of the beer from the back, then started up the dark drive. “Every time we’ve messed them up, there’s been a reason. Some rich dick running his mouth isn’t a reason a cop would care about. Them date raping girls is. Them coming onto our property with bats is. Them throwing the first punch is. Every other time we’ve doled out a beat down, they did something they damn well knew could hold up in court.”
Holds up in court. Like most courts would favor us over Barrington. I moved around him on the porch steps to open the door. “Nothing holds up in court with Barrington money.”
“Maybe not, but if you don’t think their uppity as hell parents reem their gold-rimmed assholes for it...” He made his way through the living room and into the kitchen. “Shaming their rich daddies could put their inheritance at risk.” Then he shoved a few cases into the fridge before straightening and looking over the dented door at me. “And what is a Barrington prick without his inheritance?”
Nothing. And in their eyes, that would almost be as bad as being Dayton. Maybe we weren’t as untouchable as I thought when it came to Barrington.
