nine #2
“Go,” Lennox says over his shoulder to me, and I roll off the table and sway dizzily.
I may be lucid, but the drug definitely took more than the edge of pain off.
My head feels all cloudy, and I forget what I’m doing for a second, until I see Hemingway crouched at the back door, gesturing frantically for me to join her.
I bend low and hurry over, trying to keep my balance.
“Dynamo is outside,” she says. “We’re almost there. Just run to the truck and get in as quick as you can. I’ll bandage you up on the way. Okay? We got this.”
I nod, and she shoves open the door, letting me out into the icy night air.
It burns my cheeks, bringing a bit of clarity back, and I run for the truck idling outside.
I guess I’m all in on trusting them, because I don’t bother to check who it is before I throw open the door and scramble up into the seat.
The flash of blond hair and a sleeve of tattoos reassures me, nonetheless.
I’m reaching for the door when Dynamo swears and clamps his hand on my leg, slamming on the gas at the same time.
The truck shoots forward, I’m thrown back in the seat, and the door slams shut.
“Wait,” I cry. “We left Hemi!”
“She’s in the back,” Dynamo says, hopping the curb to make a sharp turn. He stomps the accelerator, and the truck roars down an empty side street.
“You sure?” I ask, twisting around. I can’t see anything out the back except headlights.
“Hold on tight, darlin’,” Dynamo says, and then we’re taking a corner on two wheels.
I grab for the seatbelt, snapping it around me. “Where are we going?”
“Getting you back to campus,” Dynamo says. “From what I’ve gathered, you have some friends there who can protect you. Might want to shoot them a text real quick so they can meet you at the drop off.”
I can just imagine the guys’ reaction if I called them right now. It’s irrelevant anyway, since I leave my phone when I go on these outings.
“I’m good,” I mutter.
As if to prove me wrong, something slams into us from the back. Despite the pain meds, I can feel a stab in my side, and I cry out, bracing my hand on the dash.
“Mother fucker,” Dynamo swears, bearing down harder on the gas. He turns the wheel, and we shoot out onto a main road. It stretches before us, long and straight and dotted with stoplights, though it’s abandoned this time of night.
The truck hesitates, then roars forward as Dynamo floors it.
I twist around to see if the car behind us is going to ram us again.
They’re gaining, the lights growing as they come up so close I’m temporarily blinded before they disappear behind the tailgate.
I’m bracing for impact when we hit a small dip in the road at an intersection and suddenly, the lights are gone, spinning in an arc toward the side of a building.
We race through the intersection, and I’m left staring back at the hulking black SUV that just T-boned the smaller car.
The road behind us stretches longer, empty now as we leave them behind.
“What just happened?” I cry, whipping around, my heart in my throat. “That car came out of nowhere! They didn’t even have their lights on.”
The window on the back of the cab slides open, and Hemingway sticks her head and arms in, working her way through the narrow opening until her whole body slides onto the back seat. She shakes her dark hair back and holds up a handful of white packages. “Let’s get you bandaged up.”
“What the hell,” I breathe.
“I called my dad,” she says, shrugging. “He doesn’t like people messing with his little girl.”
As she leans over the seat to bandage my stitches, I remember Annabel Lee saying her family was something like the Addam’s family.
After tonight, that is not at all how I’d describe them.
Though I always knew the Norths were gangsters, experiencing it firsthand is shocking.
I only met Angel’s dad a handful of times in all the years we hung out.
I barely know his siblings’ names. Before this year, I’m not sure I’d ever actually talked to any of his cousins except to maybe say hello in passing if they were over when we swung by to pick up Angel.
I remember him telling me how violence could bring up a lot of emotion. At the time, I was thinking how silly it was for him to lecture me, though of course he didn’t know how much violence I’ve experienced. He’d never guess I fight at the Slaughterpen.
Still, no matter how few rules an organized fight has, it’s still organized. It’s planned for in advance, agreed to. That violence is sanctioned in some way. I sign up to fight because I want to. I know what I’m getting into, even if a knife isn’t usually part of the equation.
Gangs pulling up to ambush a place with guns is on a different level.
“Does this kind of thing happen a lot?” I ask Hemingway.
“I wouldn’t say a lot ,” she says. “But it happens.”
“Where we taking you?” Dynamo asks, turning onto the main street past campus.
“And don’t tell me to drop you off on the edge of campus, because that’s not happening.
Normally, sure. I know you can take care of yourself.
But when you’re injured, and the Disciples might be coming after you? Not a chance.”
I start to argue, but it turns out I don’t have to. As soon as he turns into Thorncrown, we spot a group of guys already waiting for us. All twelve Hellhounds are out tonight, with my three guys at the front of the group, looking ready to finish the job that fighter started with her knife.
I only have seconds left before we’re close enough for them to see me, so I make a split-second decision.
Dynamo knows who I am already, and I’d rather Hemingway see me than the guys, especially since there are nine others with them.
Word gets around fast on campus, but it wouldn’t stay contained.
Hemingway is so young she probably doesn’t talk to many people in my circle, and I pray she doesn’t remember me from all those years ago, if she ever even saw me back then.
If I keep my face forward, she won’t see anything but my hair anyway.
I dive down, peel off the mask and hood, then wrench the suit down over my shoulders and arms. It’s torn anyway. I manage to peel it off to my waist before Dynamo pulls up to the curb.
“Looks like you’ve got an escort after all,” he says.
I’m too busy kicking off the tights and pulling on the flannel to answer. I offer him a quick thank you and shove the bloodied clothes under the seat. Saint is already yanking on the door handle so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t flown off.
“You good?” Dynamo asks.
“Yeah,” I say, straightening. “I’m good. Thanks again for—everything.”
I unlock the door, and my brother rips it open so hard the entire truck rocks. He grabs my arm and drags me down from the seat, his face a mask of fury. “What the fuck are you doing?”