And why am I so set on looking into him when he was such a douche last time we met?
"Hey, Gigi." David is running after me. "Your backpack."
Shit. "Thanks." I take it from him, sling it over my shoulder. "Good night."
"Wait. Sorry, okay? I'm just used to girls plastering themselves all over him every night."
Oh God, another visual I didn't need. "Right."
"If there is any question I could answer for you … ?"
I think about it, my hand already on the door. One question. What do I have to lose, right? "Does he sleep with all those girls asking after him?"
He blinks. Snorts. "No. Not all."
I slap a hand over my mouth. Holy shit, Gigi. What is wrong with you?
David wanders back to the bar, and I step outside, my heart racing. That wasn't the question I'd meant to ask, dammit. I was going to ask if he'd ever mentioned his mom, or his past.
Standing in the cold, I ask myself what exactly I'm doing. Getting jealous of other girls Jarett has slept with? Playing detective and poking my nose where it doesn't belong?
Whatever it is, it's stupid, and it's getting abundantly clear that it's time I stopped.
Chapter Eight
Jarett
Fucking frat parties.
Fucking students.
I'm in a funk, and I bet it shows. Last place I want to be is here, tonight. After working extra hours until the early morning, then playing watchdog for the gang until dawn every damn night, and then often during the day, too, I'm sleepwalking.
But Angel is meeting someone in this crowd of drunk students, which means I have no choice but to follow. Sebastian is of course tagging along. He thinks he's the shit, the bee's knees, the Pope of Chili Town. Like, no deal will go down without him.
I wonder if Angel even notices we're here, and if he'd give a damn if he knew.
Somehow I doubt it.
"Angel is heading upstairs," Sebastian whispers theatrically to me, and I roll my eyes so hard I see my goddamn brain. "I'll go with him in case he needs anything."
What, a blowjob?
"Sure, go ahead. I'll be here." I turn my steps toward a table loaded with booze before he has a chance to say anything else. "Waiting."
My patience isn't at its best tonight. I'd better put some distance between us and self-medicate before I punch him.
Seb has always been an asshole. But since things went to shit and I made his mom a promise to protect him, I've managed to keep my cool.
Mostly.
He's my brother. And I keep my promises, even if they will probably get me killed. So what? I always thought I'd die sooner rather than later. The people around me keep dropping like flies. I've known death since I was little. You can't escape it.
But you can forget about it for a while. So I grab a bottle, ignoring the protests of the students manning the table.
"Don't sweat it," I tell them. "Relax. I'm a bartender."
That shuts them up.
Smirking, I wander away. Maybe what I said made sense to them on some subconscious level. Yo, fuckers, I'm a bartender, so I can handle liquor. Hand it over.
Bottle in hand, I wander the glorious halls of the frat house. Maybe if I get shitfaced, it will start looking better. Right now it looks like a unicorn farted balloons and rainbows all over the place.
I pass by groups of boys and girls laughing and doing shots, dressed in glittery, expensive brand clothes. High-class college, this one, I'll just bet. Not my kind of scene, especially not in the mood I'm in tonight.
Fucking entitled twats.
To think there was a time I'd dreamed of going to college, of living on campus, of learning stuff and meeting people …
Taking a swig from the bottle, I wander deeper into the building. My fucked-up mood is not all from the party, I know, or even on Sebastian and the gang business.
I just can't fucking stop thinking about Gigi. It's consuming my thoughts, my dreams-those that don't turn into nightmares, but then sometimes those, too. Talking to me, looking at me, smiling at me-dressed in her mini skirt.
Naked, covered in sweat, writhing in pleasure.
Or covered in blood.
Sexy. Moaning my name.
Or dead-and I'm the one holding the damn gun.
That's what happens when you're running on little to no sleep, I decide and drink up to chase the images away. All of them. Better lose the hot fantasies together with the nightmares, or I'm just gonna find a quiet corner and curl up. The thought of anything happening to Gigi …
Fuck, no way.
She's safe in her little world. As long as her stupid little friend doesn't get her into trouble, she'll be fine. Finish her studies, find a good job, a good guy, settle down, have kids.
I rub at my chest and take my bottle into another room, trying to escape my mind, escape the pounding beat coming from the speakers and the shouts and laughter.
But no such luck. More people, more noise. Booze, heavy-lidded eyes, painted lips, it all spins around me in dizzying circles.
A smiling girl lays her hand on my arm, mouth opening to tell me something, and I shrug her off. A guy gets in my path, and I shove him away.
God, just a moment of silence, is that too much to ask?
I find a door and throw it open. Then there is another, and I cross a storeroom to open it, too, and I'm outside.
Cold. Quiet. A clear sky overhead, full of stars.
I lift the bottle to my lips and salute the universe.
"Fuck you," I whisper. "Hail the merciful dead."
I stop cold. My adopted father used to say that, Connor, the one who came long before the Lowes. The one who's gone. On most days, I try not to think about him, but sometimes it doesn't work.
Like now.
"To Connor," I whisper. "If you're listening, I fucked up, man. I fucked up … your legacy. What you taught me." I drink up long and deep, feel the vodka burn in my stomach. "It's all for nothing. You're gone, and I just … "
Raised voices shatter the peace, jerking me out of the memories and fucking self-pity. What the hell is going on?
Two guys and a girl stomp into the garden, coming in from the back street. I don't recognize the guys, which is a good thing. Not from my gang, or any of the gangs we deal with.
But when they stop and turn, still arguing with the girl, I hiss through my teeth.
No fucking way. That little bitch, again? That … Sydney, Gigi's bestie. She can't keep out of trouble, can she? And she just knows all the places where she can get drugs. Not a good sign, if she's playing the innocence card with Gigi.
Yeah, these guys scream danger. It's not the way they're dressed. The looks on their faces give them away. Blank. Hard. Used to violence.
But I'm not doing this. Hell, I didn't even strike a deal with Gigi. This is none of my fucking business.
Then one of them snarls something and shoves the girl-Sydney-away so hard she stumbles and falls down on her ass, and I'm moving before I know it, the bottle still clutched in my hand. My only thought is getting between the girl and the assholes.
"Back off," I snarl, a red tinge falling over my gaze like a bloodied shroud. "Don't you touch her."
"Who the hell are you?" one of them asks, his voice echoing strangely in my ears. "This ain't none of your fucking business."
He comes for me, and dammit, he's right, this is none of my business, but my head is fucked, and I think it's Seb shoving at me, I think it's the punks at the halfway house manhandling me, and the red thickens, distorting everything.
The guy throws a punch, I turn, catching it on my upraised arm, and swing the bottle at the other guy who's trying to ambush me from the other side. The bottle connects, and he cries out, stumbling away-just enough for me to focus on the first guy.
He's pulling something from his pocket-and I think it's a gun, but it's probably a switchblade. Yeah, I was right. I snap my hips, putting force into my blow as I chop at his arm, making him groan and drop the knife.
In my mind's eye, I'm at the halfway house, trying to stop the other boys from taking my stuff, from putting me out of commission and eating my dinner.
But Connor taught me this move, in his backyard. He taught me to shoot, and disarm, what the law says and how fucking dangerous gangs are.
The guy kicks at my leg, and I stagger back, cursing. The shift from memory to the here and now is disconcerting.
"Fuck off," I grunt. "She's with me."
"Then tell her not to poke her nose where it doesn't belong," the guy says, and throws a punch that glances off my jaw. "Stay the hell out of it, too. Got it?"
Stumbling back a step, spitting blood, I nod.
Just go away, I think. Go away. I'm not sure I can fight much longer with the way my knee is hurting.
Thankfully, he grabs his friend who's bleeding from a cut over his eye and is giving me the stink-eye, and they walk away, out onto the street and into the night.
My jaw is throbbing in time to my racing heart, my knee is misery, and as I turn around to check on Sydney, my boots crunch on the pieces of the broken bottle. The fumes of vodka make the usual dizziness I get after a flashback worse, and I weave on my feet.