14. Coraline
14
CORALINE
I almost weep with relief. I don’t know what happened, and if I have to think about it later, I might cite divine intervention, but right there, over Grant’s left shoulder stands a fully-fledged Rosewood Reaper. He’s not wearing his kutte, but everyone in the surrounding counties knows all about the Reapers.
I jump at the opportunity, sliding free from underneath Grant’s dominating presence and practically leap into Jagger’s side. “Here he is. My boyfriend.” I stress the word enough, glancing at Jagger and wiggling my eyebrows to mentally communicate that he needs to play along.
His face softens when he looks at me. Lips curling into a soft smirk and eyes sparkling with mischief. Two hours ago, and I would’ve scoffed at the expression, but I’m clinging to it like the lifeline it is.
“Bull fucking shit,” Grant drawls. His body seems to oscillate between anger and smugness. “There’s no way she’s with you. You’re not her type.” he rocks back on his heels like he’s got something over on Jagger.
Jagger arches a brow and tosses his arm over my shoulder, curling me into his chest. “I don’t really give a fuck about your opinions.”
Grant’s friends finally pick up on the shift in conversation and the newcomer. The four of them huddle behind him, creating an intimidating wall of muscle. Grant looks from his left to his right, catching the eyes of his buddies. There’s a silent conversation happening between them, and I’m not sure what Jagger’s thinking. But all I can think about is how the hell we’re going to get out of this.
“Yeah, well unless you can prove it to me, you’re not going anywhere with my girl.” Grant shoves his hands in his pockets, entirely too pleased with himself.
Revulsion wraps its hand around my throat. His girl ? Give me a fucking break. I take a step forward. “ Prove it to you ? I don’t owe you shit.”
Grant’s face shifts into a sneer, his nose almost pointed with derision. His buddies mirror his aggression, the four of them jerking their chins up high.
“Nah, it’s alright, baby. The man wants to see what he lost. Who are we to deny him such an . . . honest request?” Jagger’s expression never changes but I can see the tension in his shoulders as he shrugs. Without so much as an eyebrow waggle to clue me in, he turns toward me and palms the side of my neck.
My lips part on a surprised exhale at his touch.
“Hm,” he hums lowly, sinking his fingertips into the hair at the nape of my neck. Goosebumps scatter down my spine at his possessive hold. He gives me time, a few seconds to pull away or turn my cheek.
But all I can do is close my eyes and lean into him.
His lips melt against mine in a kiss sweet enough to hurt my teeth. The world spins and tilts on its axis the moment his lips touch mine. Electric pulses spark from my fingertips as adrenaline pours from my veins.
It’s a kiss that tastes like freedom and rebellion. Like a storm brewing on the horizon, one that has the power to flatten me.
His lips are softer than I remember. His bottom lip poutier than his top. I pull back, thinking that’s it. But his grip on my neck tightens, his hand shifting from around my shoulders to flatten against my lower back. He pulls me flush against him, His tongue slipping between my lips in a single stroke.
I lose myself in this kiss. All sense of time and place just cease to exist like they were never there in the first place. In fact, everything falls away until the only thing that’s left is the way I feel right now.
The way his kiss makes me feel.
Eventually, he slows, pulling back. Much to my chagrin, I chase him for more, eyes closed and breath ragged. A low noise reverberates against my lips as his mouth brushes along mine.
I open my eyes slowly, his eyes the first thing to come into focus. Deep, endless pools of darkness. I’ve tripped and gotten lost in those depths before. And it’d be all too easy to drown in them. For the first time, I think I understand why people wax poetic about looking into someone’s eyes. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or the exhaustion or some sort of biological chemical reaction to that kiss.
Jagger’s thumb brushes along the sensitive skin underneath my ear. A soft stroke upward and downward. His gaze searches my face, a question written in the way his brows fall over his eyes.
My lips close slowly—too slowly—but for the life of me, I don’t know what to say to him.
Turns out, I don’t need to say anything. He hums under his breath, sliding his calloused thumb along my neck once more before he slowly straightens up. He keeps one arm around my lower back, using it to curl me back toward his chest.
“You know what, boys? I don’t really give a fuck about you or what you believe. But I am gonna take my girl home now,” Jagger says. Underneath his pleasant tone, there's a band of steel.
“The fuck you are. Grant says that’s his girl, and we wouldn’t be the Hunters if we just let you scoop her up from underneath him,” one of the guys says.
“Hunters, yeah,” Jagger says with a chuckle. “How is ole Clifford these days, hm? Because my prez told me he’s cracking down on his prospects.” He absently scratches along his jaw, the scruff rustling against his fingertips. “Rumor has it that he let a bunch of dipshits prospect a few years back that ended up starting a turf war.” His lips curl up at the corners, revealing a mischievous glint in his eyes. There’s a calculated look on his face as he smirks, like a predator who knows he has the upper hand.
I hear the guys shuffle on their feet, the scuffs of their boots loud in the quiet night. I want to look to see their expressions, but I can’t peel my gaze from the man next to me.
“How the fuck do you know shit about Hunter shit?” Grant demands, always the most eloquent.
“Bro.” There’s a smack that finally draws my attention. “Let’s just get out of here. No pussy is worth this much,” the guy to the left of Grant says.
It happens so fast, I feel like he teleported. One second Jagger is next to me, and in the next heartbeat, he's standing over the guy who just mouthed off. And the mouthy guy is on the ground because Jagger punched him.
“Axel, you fucking dumbass,” one of the other guy mutters.
“Don’t you ever disrespect her again, you hear me?” Jagger points at the mouthy guy, Axel.
Axel really is a dumbass because his gaze slides to the side, directly to me. He sneers at me, his gaze promising retribution.
Jagger steps to the side, blocking his view. “No. Don’t look at her. Don’t even fucking think about her. And I’ll know if you do, yeah?”
Axel spits on the pavement next to him in defiance.
“Because I’m the motherfucking Reaper.”
It’s hard to tell, but I think Axel’s face pales a little bit. I’m distracted by the way Jagger’s back muscles ripple underneath the back of his tee as he walks backward. He resumes his protective spot in front of me. And I’m face-to-face with the giant Reaper emblem along his back—a skull in a traditional style with crossing scythes.
The other three of Grant’s friends take a collective step back, murmuring a chorus of “oh fucks.” But not Grant. No, he’s too stubborn for such things like common sense.
“I don’t give a fuck who you are. I know there’s no way you’re with her, because I was just with her ,” Grant proclaims with condescension.
“I know who you are, Lawson. And I’m telling you, man. I don’t give a fuck about you. So listen to your friends before you get hurt. Again . And get the fuck out of here. And if I find out you’ve been harassing my girl, well, then, you and me? We’re going to have a fucking problem.”
Chills skate down my back at the threat. I don’t think he really means it, but he sure as hell sounds convincing to me. I honestly don’t know how Grant is still standing here. Stupidity probably.
I peek around Jagger, inadvertently getting a whiff of him. How can he still smell so good after spending the night inside a sweaty concert? It’s distracting and honestly unfair.
“Reapers aren’t shit anymore, bro .” Grant taunts.
“C’mon, dude. Let’s just fucking go. It’s not worth it to fuck with the Reapers,” one of his friends says, hitting him on his shoulder.
Jagger nods a few times, like he’s agreeing with someone. “I get it, Lawson. You’re more a visual guy, yeah? Alright, let me paint this picture for you. You’re home alone, kicked out of prospecting for the Hunters, and then you hear a strange noise. Sounds like a raccoon or something, going to town on your garbage in the backyard. So you go to investigate it because you’re a confident guy. But right before you leave your house, you remember that I warned you. So now you’re thinking maybe it’s not a raccoon, but it’s something bigger, scarier. Infinitely more dangerous.” Jagger strolls forward, still keeping himself between me and them.
“I’m not fucking scared of you.”
Jagger nods. “I know you’re not, but you will be.”
“Are you threatening me?” Grant’s all bluster.
Jagger jerks his chin toward Grant. “Now you’re getting it.”
There was a palpable tension in the air, crackling with the promise of more violence. But then something shifts in Grant’s expression, and he lets his friends pull him away.