Page 90 of The Forbidden Note

Money’s cleaner. Quicker. And there’s no need to get your hands dirty.

My hands are begging for this guy’s blood though.

I take a step forward.

Finn moves slightly in front of me.

“Come on. Who was it? I just want to shake your hand.” The idiot grins. “Preferably, the one that was inside her.”

My entire body jolts forward.

Sol steps in front of me this time.

I’m being blocked by the two of them and it still isn’t enough.

Dutch unleashes a scowl. “Walk away. Now.”

The jock sizes Dutch up. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll bash your skull into your freaking tail bone,” I snap, lunging.

Sol grabs my shoulder.

Finn stretches his arms over my chest, barring me.

“Why so uptight after hitting a babe like Jamieson? Don’t tell me you couldn’t handle her?” He laughs. “Tell Miss J to come my way if she wants a real man.” He grabs his crotch. “I’ll make eighteen feel like thirty-seven.”

“Have some freaking respect,” Cadence snaps, stalking up to the guy even though she’s pint-sized and can do zero damage. “You’re disgusting.”

Dutch pulls his wife all the way behind him. Cadence struggles to be free, looking ready to beat the crap out of everyone.

No wonder Dutch fell head over heels.

His girl’s a dynamite.

“Don’t be so selfish,kings. At least tell us if she tastes as good as she looks.” The jock grins, showing off teeth just begging to be smashed in. “Is it just one of you who got to smash?” Eyes glinting, he whispers, “Or do all of you share—”

I break out of Sol and Finn’s human barricade and lash my drumstick across the bastard’s face. He lets out a scream that rattles through the hallway. Bending down, he grabs his head.

His two friends rush me, lips twisted darkly. Sol and Finn launch at them.

Sol throws a dirty right hook.

Finn does a round-house kick and the other guy crumples like a potato sack.

The fight is over before it even begins.

We form a straight line, staring at the jocks.

They pick themselves off the floor, skin flaming in embarrassment. The one at the front has a large, drumstick sized welt on his cheekbones.

“Stop now unless you want your face rearranged,” I warn them.

The jocks curse and rush at us, roaring.

Just then, the football coach enters the hallway.

“What the hell is going on here?”

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