Page 79 of Crew Princess
The second guy had a split second’s warning to step back, so Cross’ fist didn’t hit him in the face, but instead got him smack in the neck. The guy doubled over, gasping.
Cross went down—it was inevitable after the way he’d used his body for both those hits. But no one had hit him or shoved him. He was just unable to fight gravity. But after a moment he scrambled to his feet. Jordan came in behind him, catching the second guy with a second hit, and that guy fell right next to Zeke.
Then it was on.
We all waded in, because this was our crew. Jordan was one of us.
As we fought—hitting, ducking, taking hits—a part of me basked in this. That old Bren, the one locked away in a cage inside of me, she was the one controlling me now.
She was the one smiling as blood trickled from a cut on my face. She was the one finally breathing, and she was the one basking because underneath the roughness of fighting, there’s something beautiful about violence.
The ugliness of it, the harshness of it, the realness of it.
It’s simple.
With violence, someone gets hurt. It’s going to happen. You’re on one side or the other. There’s no in-between, because that’s the bottom line for violence. Your mind is allowed to shut off. Your body takes over. And your body knows to protect its own.
This moment, this day, this morning, we chose.
They’d gotten one of ours before, but not today. Not now. Now was our time.
This was our retribution.
You either hurt or you get hurt. We chose to hurt first.
An air horn sounded, ripping through the air.
Everyone stopped.
The fight had just seemed to start, but that wasn’t the truth. As soon as it began, half their guys ran off, and an audience surged forward.
Someone had yelled, “FIGHT!” So when that horn blasted, I wasn’t shocked to see an audience, or the phones pointed at us.
What surprised me was who had the air horn.
Cross’ half-brother.
And now I was getting a better view of him.
He was…shit. Cross was right.
I straightened from where I had jumped back to avoid an arm. Cross stopped too, a guttural sound coming from his throat.
“Bren,” he said quietly, moving the guy he was holding in front of me to block me from the phones. “Run.”
Jordan heard him too, and it clicked for both of us. He shoved a ball cap down over my face.
I was on probation. It wasn’t the first fight I’d participated in with that status, but this one was more televised. I was in trouble, a lot of fucking trouble.
“Bren.” Another whispered order from Cross. “Go. Get to Roussou so you have an alibi.”
It was a little late for that, but I whispered back, “I’m covered. I sent a text before we started.”
Cross and Jordan both looked at me, eyebrows pinched.
His brother came wading through the crowd.
“EVERYONE, GET THE FUCK BACK!” he yelled. “And delete those fucking videos! We’re not fucking narcs!”
