22. Maren #2
The command makes my blood freeze, then boil. I've heard that tone before. Seen that look. My fingers inch toward my purse, feeling for the outline of my knife.
But before I can grab it, a presence materializes behind me. A wall of heat and barely contained rage.
The hair on my neck stands up. I don't need to turn around to know who it is.
Tyler's eyes widen, looking over my shoulder. “The fuck, man? We're busy here.”
I feel Riggs' breath on my neck, the solid warmth of him just inches away. Where the fuck did he come from? Was he following me?
“She's not interested,” Riggs says, his voice so low it's almost a growl.
Tyler's grip tightens on my wrist. “Mind your own business, asshole. The chick and I were just getting to know each other.”
I could handle this myself. I was about to handle this myself. But the way Riggs is standing so close, his body radiating against my back, makes something twist inside me.
“Let go of her wrist,” Riggs says, each word precise and deadly calm.
Tyler's face contorts. “Fuck off! She's coming home with me.”
I feel Riggs shift behind me, his hand coming to rest on my hip. Just a touch, possessive and steadying at once.
“No,” he says simply. “She's not.”
Tyler's eyes narrow, darting between us. “What, is this your girlfriend or something?”
The question hangs in the air. I hold my breath, waiting for Riggs' answer, because no, I’m not.
But I never fucking know what will come out of his mouth, and after earlier tonight, he was acting very boyfriend-like.
“Something like that,” Riggs says, and I can hear the dangerous smile in his voice.
Tyler scoffs, but I see the calculation in his eyes. Sizing Riggs up. Even drunk, he can tell he's outmatched.
“Whatever, man. Plenty of other bitches out tonight.” He releases my wrist.
I feel Riggs shift behind me, his hand sliding past my hip to my purse. I know exactly what he's going for, and every muscle in my body tenses.
“What did you just call her?” Riggs' voice drops an octave, that dangerous edge I recognize all too well.
Before I can blink, he's reaching into my purse, fingers wrapping around the familiar shape of my switchblade. The one I showed him how to flick open with one hand during one of our more fucked-up bonding moments.
In one fluid motion, Riggs steps around me, the knife flipping open with a satisfying click that always makes my stomach flutter. He slams Tyler against the brick wall so hard I hear the back of his skull crack against it.
The blade is at his throat before the asshole can even process what's happening, the sharp edge pressing just enough to dimple the skin.
“I asked you a question,” Riggs says, his voice terrifyingly calm. “What did you call her?”
Tyler's eyes are wide now, darting between the knife and Riggs' face. I can see the exact moment sobriety hits him like a bucket of ice water.
“I—I didn't mean—” Tyler stutters, Adam's apple bobbing dangerously against the blade.
Riggs presses harder. A thin red line appears beneath the knife's edge.
“Apologize,” Riggs commands. “Apologize for calling her or any woman a bitch.”
Tyler's trying to maintain his tough guy act, but his voice cracks. “It's just a word, man. Jesus Christ.”
Riggs leans in closer, and I see something in his eyes that sends a rush of heat through my body.
“You know what?” Riggs whispers, just loud enough for me to hear. “I don't think you need that tongue if all you're going to do is disrespect women with it.”
The knife shifts, pressing against the corner of Tyler's mouth now. “Maybe I should cut it out. Save the next girl you try to force yourself on.”
“I'm sorry!” Tyler blurts out, voice high and panicked. “I'm sorry, okay? I won't—I didn't mean?—”
“Look at her,” Riggs orders, jerking Tyler's face toward me. “Tell her.”
Tyler's eyes lock with mine, filled with genuine fear now. “I'm sorry for calling you—for what I said. I'm sorry.”
I tilt my head, studying him like an insect pinned to a board. “And the other girls? The ones at your school? The ones you'll meet at the next school you take a little detour to?”
“Them too,” he gasps as Riggs applies more pressure. “I swear to God, I'm sorry. I respect women. I do.”
Riggs holding my knife to this asshole's throat, defending my honor or whatever the fuck he thinks he's doing is so fucking hot.
I move closer, sliding my hand over his where it grips the knife. His skin is hot beneath mine, knuckles white with tension. His hand trembles. Not from what he's doing but from my touch. I feel the shudder run through him, see his jaw clench as he tries to hide it.
My touch is what's making Riggs Rhodes, hockey star and campus golden boy, tremble like he's in withdrawal.
“You want to help, don't you?” I whisper, voice silky. I can feel his pulse jump under my fingers.
His breath catches. “Maren...”
I know I'm sending him mixed signals. Just hours ago, I kicked him out of my apartment when he started acting too comfortable, too possessive. When he suggested we make this a regular thing, like we're dating. Like we're normal.
But normal isn't what either of us wants. It's not what makes his hand shake beneath mine.
Normal is over-fucking-rated.
It isn’t the killing that makes me feel alive.
It’s him.