Page 95 of Detour

“Do me a favor and get the fuck back.”

“I’m fine right here,” Steve drawls lazily, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

“I wasn’t asking. Get the fuck out of my girl’s face. Now.”

Coty nods at Beckett so he presses on the guy’s chest as a last ditch effort to move him. Steve shrugs it off, which is actually quite impressive considering the size difference, and advances on Coty. Coty pivots to face him fully while sliding me behind his back in one smooth motion.

“I thought this was a communal thing. Can’t I get a turn?” Steve taunts, trying to meet my eyes.

Coty crowds him further as I hear another engine quickly approaching. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Steve never gets a chance to answer because Marc, still wearing his helmet, rushes up and head-butts him in the face, sending his ass flying to the dirt-packed ground. Guys from the other cars dash over, and Marc wastes no time punching anyone within reach. Coty pushes me away before lunging at guys in his range, taking each one down after the last. Beckett tosses a pair of friends trying to help Steve, leaving him to fend for himself.

They’re all busy when Steve eventually sits up so I scramble over to lean down to his level, and with a chunk of his hair in my grasp, I force him to look me in the eye.

“What does Joe say about me?” Even though I have a pretty good idea, I still need to hear it.

Steve’s face splits into a bloody smile. “That your pretty pink puss is worth the wait.”

Crimson coats my vision as bile clogs my throat. Without considering the consequences, I yank his head down, slamming his face into my lifted knee, effectively cutting off his menacing laugh. The nauseating crunch causes me to gasp, releasing his hair. His nose gushes more than it already was but I refuse to feel sorry for him. Women aren’t amusement rides with lines for any idiot wanting to get their kicks off for thirty seconds. We’re the prize only serious prospects work their asses off to win a chance with.

I’m suddenly yanked backward and my elbow jabs into a hard side without a second thought.

“Shit, Angie.” Beckett grabs his torso, scowling at me.

I shrug while muttering, “Sorry.” All’s fair in mass fights, right?

We look down at Steve’s slumped form as he groans from the ground. Beckett’s eyebrow raises in question, but I ignore him and the waste of space currently rolling around in pain.

“We gotta go.”

He ushers me to his green bike, tossing me his spare helmet.

“What about Marc and Coty? I’m not leaving them.”

“They’re right behind us.”

Coty peers over from holding a guy by his shirt collar and jerks his head, telling me to go. He releases the limp heap to the ground, then grabs Marc. They run over to mount their bikes as Beckett and I do the same. He tries to readjust my hands before giving up and taking off with them still on the tank. We speed off without so much as a backward glance at the shitstorm a douche named Steve created.

Fucking Steve.

CHAPTER 32

Angela

T hey beat us to the apartments and I’m lifted off the bike as soon as Beckett’s wheels stop moving. Coty removes my helmet, then proceeds to pat me down like an overzealous TSA agent.

Coty’s head snaps to mine, his face full of worry. “Are you okay?”

The wind from the ride now gone, the stagnant hot air creeps back in. “I’m fine. You?”

He nods, pulling me to him. “I’m good.”

His pounding heart slows as he tucks me against his chest and I wish I could say the same for mine.

“Bro, you were insane. Dude fucking flew!”

Beckett’s voice booms through the deserted lot as he talks to Marc who’s inspecting his cracked helmet. My eyes search everyone for injuries. Coty’s knuckles, swollen and covered in dried blood, are worse off than the last time I saw him use them. Marc’s arms have some cuts that are still wet and in need of care. Beckett has a welt across his cheek that makes him wince anytime his expressive face shifts.