18. Addy
Chapter eighteen
Addy
T he cold metal of the table is a stark contrast to the warmth of Gen's grasp on my hand. My fingers thread through hers, finding solace in her silent support.
"Check it out," Chess says, his voice cutting through the uncomfortable silence. His eyes are fixed on something outside the window, and there's an edge to his tone that makes my stomach clench. "Preston's here."
All talk ceases. I follow the others, abandoning the relative safety of the diner as we file out into a dark corner of the parking lot. The just setting sun glares down at us, casting Saint's shadow across the asphalt like a dark omen.
The lot is mostly empty aside from a few scattered cars. The asphalt is cracked and littered with the evidence of past confrontations. Preston's black car gleams ominously in the light, its engine still clicking as it cools.
"Snowflake," Dre's voice is a low growl, barely audible over the pounding of my own heart. Before I can react, his arm snakes around me, yanking me forcefully against him. The suddenness of his grip sends a jolt through my body. Panic surges within me, a familiar and unwelcome guest.
"Let me go, Dre," I spit out, my words laced with fear and anger. His forearm feels like iron across my chest, stretching across my chest like a damn seatbelt. The pressure of his grip is too much, too intimate, like the curl of a dark vine ensnaring its prey. I should be afraid—terrified, even—of the possessiveness in his touch. And part of me is, a part that remembers too keenly the harsh hands of my past and present.
But there's another sensation brewing within me, a confusing rush of adrenaline that pools in my belly, igniting something wild and reckless. It's wrong, this thread of desire that weaves through my terror, but it's undeniable. Dre's breath is hot against my ear, and I hate how it sends shivers skating down my spine.
"Easy, babe," he murmurs, his voice a dangerous purr. "Just making sure you don't do anything stupid."
"Like what? Escape my kidnappers and run back to that psycho?" I shoot back, trying to twist away from him, but his grip only tightens. His body is a wall behind me, unyielding and tense with anticipation.
"Exactly," he answers, the word a mere whisper, but it carries the weight of his resolve.
I can feel the tension radiating off Dre in waves; it matches the rapid thrumming of my pulse. There's a pull between us, a dark magnetism that leaves me breathlessly trapped in the space where fear and attraction collide. I can't deny the heat that simmers beneath my skin, betraying my conflicted emotions.
“Believe me, you're the lesser of two evils.”
“Then you can think of it as protection.”
"Your idea of protection is twisted, Roberts," I manage to choke out, the rise and fall of my chest quickening as I struggle for composure.
"Pot calling the kettle black, Snowflake," Dre retorts, a hint of mockery in his tone. "We're all a little twisted here, aren't we?"
And as much as I wanted to refute his claim, to break free from the complicated web we're all tangled in, I know he isn't entirely wrong. We are products of our pain, each of us marked by the scars we carry, visible or not.
No one becomes like Dre without enduring a little darkness.
Preston's shadow looms over the cracked pavement as he unfolds himself from the driver's seat. The air chills as he blows in like a cold front. He stalks toward us with the smugness of a cat eyeing a cornered mouse. "Well, well, look what we have here," he sneers, and I feel his gaze scorch across my skin.
"Keep walking, Preston," Dre's voice is a low growl, vibrating against my spine.
"Or what?" The challenge hangs in the air, and Preston smirks, stepping closer. That's when the blade glints in the fading light—a flash of silver that dances menacingly along the surface of my arm as Dre's hand shifts.
I suck in a breath, my body going rigid. This isn't just some high school spat; the knife's cool edge grazes my skin, a stark reminder of the razor-thin line between control and chaos. "Dre..." My whisper is a mix of warning and plea, but it dies on my lips.
"Shh, Snowflake," he murmurs, and a shiver courses through me as his tongue traces a path from the base of my neck to my ear. His other hand, the one wielding the weapon, never wavers, steady as a metronome tapping out a silent rhythm against my flesh.
"Put the knife away, Roberts," Preston taunts with a roll of his eyes.
"Scared?" Dre's voice is a dark ribbon of sound, wrapping around us both.
"Should I be?" Preston's eyes narrow, but his posturing can't hide the flicker of uncertainty.
"Maybe." The word rolls off Dre's tongue like a threat.
My heart is hammering so loudly I'm sure they can hear it. My thoughts are a tangled mess—fear, anger, and something else, something dangerous that warms my blood even as my mind screams at me to run. Dre's body presses closer, insistent, demanding, and I feel him, hard and unyielding against me.
He's getting off on this.
"Let her go," Preston demands, but his voice holds less conviction.
"Make me," Dre counters, and I know this dance of theirs, this push and pull of male bravado, is about more than just me—it's about power, about pain.
"Keep her then," he shrugs. At the furrow in my brow, he sneers. "Sweet Addy," Preston coos, but his tone drips with poison, "you're in deep, girl. And it's your own choices that got you here."
"Choice?" I spit out, trying to summon defiance but feeling it falter.
He chuckles darkly, throwing a look over his shoulder at Saint, who watches like a storm about to break. "You play with fire, sweetheart. You get burned."
The air feels electric, pulsing with a tension that grips my lungs and refuses to let go. My heart thunders against my ribs, betraying the fear I've worked so hard to conceal.
Saint doesn't move, doesn't flinch, but I see the muscle twitch in his jaw, the only sign of the rage he keeps shackled tight. Preston reaches into his jacket, producing a thick roll of cash with a flourish, and tosses it at Saint's feet where it unravels like the petals of a dark bloom.
"Consider my debts paid," Preston says, his eyes never leaving mine. He turns to leave, but Chess steps out to block him.
"Don't fucking move, you little prick. You're late on your payment and you have the fucking gall to come here and disrespect me?" Saint's voice is a low, dangerous hiss. "I don't trust you one little bit, Preston . You don't go anywhere until I've counted my money."
Dre's arm—his unyielding restraint across me—tightens for a split second before slackening. That's all I need. With adrenaline singing in my veins, I twist against him, pushing back with every ounce of pent-up ferocity I learned from years of having to fight for myself.
"Addy, don't," Chess murmurs, but his voice is a distant echo as my limbs come alive, thrashing against the confinement.
"Let go!" I hiss, my nails clawing at the vice of his forearm. "I'm not your damn hostage!"
"Shit, Snowflake, calm down!" Dre's grip shifts, becoming desperate rather than controlling, as he tries to keep me tethered to him in the midst of the chaos.
"Never!" My breath is ragged, my movements erratic. Every second in Dre's hold is another moment too long, another piece of myself I refuse to surrender.
They're going to give me back to this prick. He's paid and they're just going to hand me over. I can see the look in Preston's eyes. I won't survive what comes next.
"Easy, Snowflake," Dre tries again, his words brushing hot against the shell of my ear, "I've got you."
"You don't 'got' anything," I snarl, finally wrenching myself free from his grasp. My chest heaves, my vision blurs with tears of rage or fear—I can't tell which.
"Damn it, Adelaide!" Dre's curse is lost to the wind, his expression torn between fury and concern.
The air is electric, the taste of freedom and fury mingling on my tongue. I spin on my heel, facing Dre with fire in my veins. His ice-blue eyes widen just a fraction before my palm connected with his cheek—a resounding slap that echoes through the tension-thick lot.
"Snowflake..." he warns, but it's too late for words.
In an instant, his expression morphs from shock to something much, much darker. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my throat like iron bands, shoving me back until my spine meets cold metal—the hood of a car by the feel of it. The chill seeps through my shirt, a stark contrast to the heat of his body looming over me.
"You bitch," he growls, pressing the blade to my skin delicately enough to promise danger without drawing blood. Yet.
"Draven!" Chess's voice cuts through the standoff, sharp with urgency. " Mano , put the knife down. You don't want to do this."
"Stay out of it, Chess," Dre hisses, not taking his gaze off me.
"Please, Dre, she’s scared. We can sort this out," Chess pleads, stepping closer.
"Like hell I'm scared," I lie, my mind racing.
"Scared or not, she needs to learn." Dre's arm tenses, the threat in his grasp tightening.
Suddenly, the world erupts into chaos as Preston came barrels towards us, wielding a baseball bat with reckless abandon. Dre's head snaps to the side just in time to catch sight of the incoming threat.
"Watch out!" Chess shouts, but it's too late.
The world warps into a blur of motion and malice, my breath catches in a sharp hitch as the bat swings wide. Dre shoves me aside and rolls away, narrowly avoiding the strike meant for his skull. Before I can register the intention behind his dark eyes, pain explodes across my ribs.
The weapon slices through the space where he was and slams into my ribs with a crack. I stagger back, gasping for breath.
“Oh my God!” Gen cries.
I cry out, the air knocked from my lungs by the force of the blow. The ground beneath me seems to tilt as I fight to remain upright, my hand instinctively clutching at the agony that blossoms like a cruel flower along my side.
"Addy!" Dre's voice lances through the haze, tight with panic. "Damn it, did he hit you?"
What does he even care? The man had a knife to my throat literal seconds before Preston came in swinging.
I try to speak, but only manage a choked gasp, my mind reeling. Preston just fucking hit me with a bat. The thought is a poisonous whisper, and my pulse quickens with a mix of fear and fury.
Dre's eyes darken considerably. All humanity drains from him as he squares his shoulders and turns toward Preston, teeth bared. With a feral growl, he lunges at Preston, his knife glinting in the dim light. His eyes are wild and frenzied, like a cornered animal.
“What the hell happened?” he demands of his friends. “How the fuck did he even get that close to her?”
To me, not him.
"Chess, get them out of here!" Saint barks, entering the fray, his eyes never leaving Preston's crazed form.
"Enough!" Chess screams, lunging between me and Preston. He shoves me further behind him where Gen is waiting.
"Easy," Gen soothes, her voice a lifeline. She wraps an arm around my waist, steadying me as Chess pushes us further back.
"Look after her," Chess says, glancing between Gen and me, his expression fierce. "I need to help them."
"Be careful," I manage, the words raspy against my bruised ribs. I watch, heart in my throat, as Chess turns back toward the fray.
"Always am," he shoots back with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
My heart hammers against my ribs, threatening to burst. "Stop!" I try to shout, but the word is a whisper, drowned out by the clash of egos and the crack of wood on metal.
"Saint! Look out!" Dre's warning slices through the night as Preston lunges, swinging wildly. Saint deflects the bat with his forearm, the sound echoing sharply. With a fluid grace born of too many fights, he delivers a punishing blow to Preston's midsection.
"Stay down!" Saint snarls, his dark hair falling into his eyes, but Preston is undeterred, rage fueling him.
"Addy, focus on breathing," Gen instructs, guiding me gently. Her calm demeanor is a stark contrast to the bedlam unfolding before us.
"Can't believe he actually..." My voice wavers, betrayal stinging anew.
"Shh, don't talk," Gen urged. "Just breathe."
Shouts grow louder, bodies clash with unrestrained violence, and the evening air fills with the scent of danger. Somewhere in the melee, the bat clatters to the ground.
"Chess!" My shout is lost in the cacophony, my gaze darting between the figures that danced dangerously close to the edge of disaster. My heart hammers against the bruise forming on my side, each beat a reminder of the even darker turn my life has taken.
"Addy, we can't stay here," Gen whispers urgently, tugging at my arm. But my feet are rooted to the spot, my soul torn between escape and the overwhelming impulse to rush back into the fray.
I feel crazy, crazed. These boys have literally kidnapped me. Held me against my will. For collateral. Like I'm a fucking possession.
But, there's something else weaving its way between us. They're assholes. Dangerous, maybe even more so than Preston. But, for some reason, I trust them.
Says a lot about the kind of people in my life, doesn't it?
With the bat taken out of the equation, the chaos of the fight slowly begins to die down. The second Preston is pinned to the ground, Chess and Dre rush over to where Gen and I are standing.
With the knife still clutched in his bloodied knuckles, Dre takes my face in his hands. "Are you okay?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern.
But then his lips are on mine, rough and demanding, and I can't help but respond with a kiss of my own. He pulls back to look me in the eyes again, running a calloused hand—the knife-free one—through my hair, sending shivers down my spine. He leans his forehead against mine as we catch our breaths.
Then he's gone and Chess is taking his place at my side. His hand rests heavily on Gen's shoulder, with his other arm he pulls me close and wraps around me in a comforting embrace. I can feel his breaths tickling the hairs at my temple.
"Are you okay? Tell me you're okay."
"We need to get out of here," Gen says, her eyes darting around nervously. "I don't want to stick around for the aftermath."
I hear a car door slam before Saint makes his way over to us, wiping the blood from his lips. He spits as he runs his eyes over Gen and me. With a nod, he turns to his boys. "Fucker shorted us a grand."
"Fucker's lucky he's not dead after what he did to my Snowflake," Dre's voice is laced with violence.
His? It sends a shiver down my spine.
"We need to clean this up some," Saint says, tossing his keys to Gen. "Take her to the car. We'll be there in five."
"Promise?"
"Pinky promise."