Chapter 17 Cross
CROSS
I don’t know why I’m fucking panicking about Scarlett not knowing how to defend herself, but seeing that SUV–and her split second of fear that then dissipated when she realized it wasn’t that bag of dicks—twisted me up.
And then I saw who was in the driver’s seat, and I was back in Stanley’s office while he fucking threatened her.
Because of my idiocy.
Damn it, Tyler was right. I am a dumbass.
“Where are we going?”
I glance over at Scarlett, sitting shotgun in the car I used fighting money to buy last year. I had saved up for, like, fourteen months to pay cash. And then my mother marries a guy who would’ve bought this for me without batting an eye–or notice the missing cash from his bank account.
In reality, I should’ve told my mother the truth when she called. I should’ve thrown Scarlett under the bus. Instead, I said I wanted to upgrade my car and asked if Robert could front me some cash.
Lie. But how the fuck am I going to come up with fifty thousand otherwise?
Scarlett thinks I only owe twenty. Stanley has already texted me details about the fight in the next town over.
It’s not cage fighting. It’s more like scrapping with no rules.
Like the movie Fight Club. It’s no wonder I hadn’t heard about this ring. First rule of fight club, after all…
The money is decent if you win, but Stanley made some vague claims about it being damn hard to actually win. The fighters are bigger. They’re full-blown adults who will not take kindly to a college kid walking in and trying to claim their prize money.
Whatever.
“Cross.” Scarlett’s tone is impatient.
I smirk. “Yes, dear?”
She tenses. “I asked–”
“You should recognize this route.” I make the final turn, and the abandoned warehouse comes into view. “You drove it once with Sawyer, and again with me.”
“Fucking hell.” She eyes me. “I don’t want to be here. I thought you said we’d go to the gym.”
“It’s better no one knows,” I reason. “If they suspect you have some knowledge of self-defense, they’re going to come at you differently.”
“You haven’t said who.” Her eyes widen. “Are you talking about Nick?”
I grimace. “No. Well, sure. Maybe.”
I throw the car into park and hop out. The side door is still unlocked–I’m shocked it’s even closed all the way, honestly–and the hinges squeal when I shove it open. The bottom scrapes across the dirty concrete.
“I don’t like this place,” she says softly, right behind me.
Jesus, maybe being a ghost could be one of her talents.
I motion for her to go ahead of me into the dark, objectively creepy hallway. Her phone’s flashlight comes on, and she steps ahead of me.
I follow and shove the door shut behind me, enveloping us in darkness.
“What’s your plan? Tackle me in the dark?” her voice quivers. Her flashlight is pointed down, illuminating her shoes.
“You’re not very big. I think it would be rather easy.”
She scoffs.
I move around her then lunge at her back. I grab her shoulders.
She lets out a yelp and swings at me. The bright light flashes across my face. I pry her phone out of her hand and dance away, a laugh bursting out. She raises her hand to block it when I shine it at her face.
“Come on, then.” I turn and saunter away, the flashlight arcing across the floor in front of me. She’ll just have to follow in my shadow. I leave her in the dust and find the breaker. There’s a switch for the generator outside, which is how they lit this place up for the fight.
The hum of electricity makes the building seem to come alive around me, and I come around the corner to find Scarlett standing in the center of the huge main room. She’s climbed up into the cage and spins in a slow circle.
“Intimidating, isn’t it?” I hop the steps and snag the door with my fingers, swinging it shut behind us.
She jumps. “A little.”
I smirk.
“Okay.” She rubs her hands together. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Faster we do it, faster you get to go home?”
She nods emphatically.
I laugh. It’s not true. I’m going to keep her here until I’m satisfied she won’t be a worm on a hook for the people coming after her, whether we jump right into it or have a little foreplay first.
Instead of revealing that, though, I appraise her. She’s wearing a long beige coat, a fuzzy scarf tucked into it, tight jeans, and fashion ankle boots with a low heel. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. Before we left the house, I made her switch out her glasses for contacts but still.
Tactically, this is all shit that will get her killed.
I could wrap her easy-to-catch locks of hair in my fingers and yank her around, strangle her with the scarf wrapped around her pretty throat, or get her all tangled up in that coat and trap her arms or pin her thighs…
“Strip.”
Her eyes grow wide.
Another thought occurs to me: her panic was visceral when she was facing the douche canoe who shall not be named. She was shaking and frozen.
I need to figure out what else will make her freeze. Or throw her into flight mode. And then, I suppose, teach her how to fight through it.
Ugh.
I tap my foot on the mat. It’s weird to be standing here in shoes, but I have a feeling Scar–I should not call her that–would resort to foot stomping, especially when I grab her from behind.
“Are you going to follow my directions or just stare at me?”
“I’m cold,” the liar says.
“Your cheeks are flushed.”
“I’m just nervous.”
I burst into motion, crossing the cage and getting in her space in an instant.
I grab at her oversized coat, bunching the fabric in my hands.
It’s easy to catch her sleeves without holding onto her wrists, and I pin them behind her back with one hand.
My other hand grasps her scarf and twists just a little, allowing the fabric to tighten around her neck.
She gasps.
“See that?” I get in her face. “You’re a walking victim, Scar.”
She flinches a little.
“I’m trying to fix that.” I twist more. Her face reddens, and her mouth opens and closes. “Go on. Get out of my hold.”
Her body jerks in my grasp, to no avail. I’ve got her arms trapped, her head and neck. Our chests are nearly touching. But she doesn’t raise her knee to get me in the balls. She just trembles like there’s an earthquake inside her.
I wait until her eyes roll back and her legs buckle. I release the scarf and catch her waist, guiding her to the floor. She comes back to life a second later, and her shock morphs into anger.
She slaps me. Her palm cracks against my cheek, but there isn’t enough force behind it to turn my head—or make me do anything but grin.
“Strip,” I repeat. “Or do you want to find out how else your coat and scarf are hazards?”
“Bastard.” She picks herself up and tears off her scarf then unbuttons the coat. She throws both to the side and glares at me. Without the scarf and jacket, she’s in a simple long-sleeve black sweater and jeans. “Was that necessary?”
“Apparently. Next time I say jump, do it instead of questioning me.”
Her scowl deepens.
“Take a breath. Relax.”
“Why?”
I tsk. She just can’t fucking help herself, can she? When I cock my head, she blows out a long, slow breath. It seems to physically pain her, though, and after a long moment, she shakes out her arms.
Slight progress.
But in reality, an attack will come as a surprise to her. She’s probably not going to see it coming. I circle around her. Her hair is still down, but I’m not quite ready to latch onto that weakness yet.
I want to see what will make her clam up–or worse, completely shut down.
When I’m behind her, she stiffens ever so slightly. Her shoulders rise. I pause in her blind spot, but she doesn’t turn around.
Okay. Fine.
I grab her in a bear hug, my grip strong but not too tight. I haul her back, lifting until she’s on her toes.
“Get out of my hold,” I say in her ear.
“This is awful,” she mutters, thrashing. “Jesus.”
“Nope, it’s just me.” I grin.
She smells good–probably the floral shit she uses in her hair, which is now stuck to the stubble on my jaw. Unfortunately, she’s really bad at attempting to defend herself. She kicks out, but she doesn’t make contact. Her elbow grazes my side and does literally no damage.
I think a kitten could hold her hostage, and she’d let it.
“You’re not trying.” I squeeze her. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
“I don’t like your methods.”
“I don’t like that I spent twenty thousand dollars making your ex-boy toy go away,” I growl. “And yet, we all make sacrifices. This is yours.”
She grunts. Her heel connects with my shin, and I loosen a fraction of an inch. She kicks again, sensing a weakness. Then, she stomps.
“Fucking finally.” I release her.
She stumbles away from me and whirls around. “What was that?”
“Use what you’ve got.” I come at her again, from the front. She sees me looming and backpedals. I catch her shoulders and shove her against the cage then pin her with my hips. My knee parts her thighs.
This position wakes up the other side of my brain—the side more often reserved for the girls I use to distract myself. It’s not my fault Scarlett is pretty.
She pushes at my chest. The cage wall rattles. This isn’t freaking her out enough. She’s just too timid.
“Maybe I should hold you down and pour alcohol down your throat,” I goad. “Let’s see if your ex was all talk, or full of–oof.”
She punched me in the throat? I cough, but inside, I’m proud. At least she’s angry.
Good girl.
She ducks under my arm and puts distance between us. Her chest heaves. “That was uncalled for, Cross.”
I pull the flask from my back pocket. “So is that a no?”
Her face pales.
I shake it, letting her hear the slosh of liquid.
“Cross–”
I’ve found the trigger. One of them. She stares at me with huge eyes, and her feet stop moving.
Bad move.
I approach slowly. Carefully. I drop my arm, but she still seems too caught up in the fact that I have a flask to notice I’m getting closer. The cage is a circle–there’s no corner to box her in. But her fear is a cage all its own, and I seem to have locked her inside it with one simple action.
She doesn’t notice I’m right in front of her until my hand is in her hair.
Her lips part, her breath ragged, and the flinch that rolls through her body is wicked. I tug her head back, and her gaze flicks to mine.
“Drink it, and we’ll have a little fun,” I say.
My stomach rolls at the insinuation. It was very fucking clear what that douche said in the cage, but Scarlett hasn’t admitted anything beyond he isn’t an ex. Get her drunk, and what, she’ll open her legs?
Or she’ll pass out and not know what he’s doing?
One or the other.
Slut or victim.
I touch the cap of the flask–closed–to her lips, and she shuts down. I watch the light vanish from her expression like a candle being blown out.
Does she really think so little of me?
Probably, you dick.
How the fuck are we going to work around this fear? I release her hair, but she doesn’t move. Some part of her has taken over and pushed her into survival mode.
That makes me fucking livid.
I toss the flask and grasp her jaw lightly. Her nostrils flare, and her gaze slides to mine then away.
“Don’t do that, Scarlett,” I say in a low voice. Concern prickles at me. “Come back.”
Nothing.
I shake her head.
Nothing.
I can’t tell if I’m angrier at her or myself. I didn’t think it would cause this much of a reaction.
And…well, shit. That means the situation with what’s-his-face was probably eighteen times worse than anything I’d imagined. I should probably try to remember his name so I can find him and fucking kill him later.
Can I murder someone and get away with it?
Maybe…
Tyler would probably have to help me.
Fuck, I’m in over my head.
“Scarlett.” I tap her cheek. “Wallace.”
I walk her backward and let her lean against the cage. I put my hand on her waist, and she doesn’t cringe or shove me off. She just tips her head back and closes her eyes.
Honestly, I can only think of one thing to do. One thing that will really piss her off. But pain might be just the thing to get her to snap out of it. Slapping her across the face is a low I’m not willing to stoop to–not to mention, my mother would fry me alive if she ever found out.
So, it’s option B.
I lean in and down. My lips touch her throat, and I inhale her scent again.
And then, like a fucking savage, I open my mouth and bite her neck.