Chapter 38
chapter thirty-eight
For a moment, it felt like time stalled.
Derek’s words still hung in the air, sharp and ringing, rattling through the crowd like an aftershock.
The music was still blaring, drowning out any attempt to reclaim control. That thundering, defiant beat made the whole square feel like it was vibrating.
Bishop Pratt didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He stood frozen at the podium, hands gripping the sides like he could physically hold the last scraps of his authority together.
And then, he turned.
Without a word, he walked offstage and disappeared behind the curtain.
That’s when it snapped.
A man in red moved.
Not just moved, charged.
Oakland barely had time to react before the man shoved his way through the crowd, breaking past the protestors like they were nothing.
Then, he was on Derek.
A full-body tackle.
Derek hit the pavement hard, the breath ripped from his lungs.
Then, the first punch landed.
A sickening, wet crack against Derek’s jaw.
Christine lunged forward first.
But Oakland was faster.
She threw herself into the fight, grabbing the man’s collar and ripping him backward with everything she had.
“GET OFF HIM!” she snarled.
She barely registered Derek coughing beneath them. Barely registered the screaming now ripping through the crowd.
Because suddenly, the whole thing ignited.
The barrier between the two sides dissolved instantly.
Red against rainbows.
Shouting turned to grappling, pushing, swinging.
A woman in a crisp red blazer—complete with dramatic shoulder pads—grabbed for Christine’s arm, like she had any business touching her.
Christine didn’t hesitate. She whipped around and slapped her across the face, open-handed and loud enough to echo.
“Get off me, bitch!” she snapped, shoving her back with enough force to send her stumbling into the crowd.
When it started, Spencer and Silver were a few feet behind them, but now they were fully in it.
Spencer ducked, narrowly dodging a wild swing from some asshole in a Tate-branded baseball cap.
Silver grabbed his hood to yank him back, but at the last second, panicked—hesitated—then, with no better plan, just swatted his nose like a whack-a-mole.
The man coiled over in pain, blood pouring from his face.
Spencer looked at her, a laugh threatening to break free, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
“What was that?”
Silver shrugged, still wide-eyed. “I barely touched him.”
Cops were already moving in.
Christine grabbed Oakland’s sleeve. “We have to get Derek out of here. NOW.”
Derek was dazed, still flat on the ground, but his face was set in something wild—like he was half-terrified, half-thrilled.
Oakland hooked an arm under him. “Up, up, UP?—”
He groaned, stumbling upright, still clutching his ribs. “I’m—I got it, I got it?—”
But they weren’t safe yet.
Christine’s eyes snapped to the stage.
Security was moving.
And not just the city cops—the private ones, the ones hired for crowd control.
“They’re coming,” Spencer yelled, grabbing Silver’s sleeve and jerking her back before she got clocked in the face by some asshole in a polo.
Silver shook free, panting. “We gotta go.”
Oakland hesitated, scanning the crowd.
Run or fight?
Oakland’s entire body screamed to fight.
It hit her like instinct—old, buried, and sharp. After years of silence, of shrinking herself to fit someone else’s rules, something in her had finally snapped.
But Derek was still swaying, still struggling to catch his breath.
Christine’s grip on her arm tightened. “Oaks. We need to GO.”
Oakland cursed under her breath, the decision made for her.
And then, she yanked Derek forward and ran.
Christine, Silver, and Spencer were right behind them.
The crowd was still chaos, bodies slamming into each other, fists flying, cops starting to pull people away, push them down, shove them toward the barricades.
Oakland ducked past a swinging arm, dragging Derek with her.
Spencer yanked Silver aside just before she got caught in the middle of something ugly.
Christine shoved past two people in a screaming match and grabbed Oakland’s sleeve again.
“The alley—GO.”
They tore through a side street, weaving, dodging, barely making it through the crush of bodies.
The second they slipped into the alley, the noise dimmed just slightly—still deafening, still roaring, but muffled by the brick walls now cutting them off from the square.
Derek leaned against the wall, panting hard, clutching his side.
His lip was busted open. His cheek was already swelling.
Christine braced her hands on her knees, breathing hard.
Spencer was buzzing with adrenaline, hands shaking, grinning wildly. “Holy shit. That was amazing.”
Silver, bent over, hands on her thighs, shot her a flat look. “Holy shit, shut up.”
Christine looked up at Derek. “Are you okay?”
He snorted, wiping blood from his lip. “Baby, I feel fucking fantastic.”
Oakland took a slow step forward. Studied him.
Derek lifted his chin, grinning through the pain.
“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?”
Oakland exhaled. She should be furious.
Instead, she shook her head and let out a breathless, exhausted laugh.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
Derek grinned wider. “And yet, you’re still proud of me.”
Oakland pulled him into a tight hug, his blood staining her jacket. “We’re in this together now, buddy.”
Christine cut in. “Okay, let’s have the sentimental moment later—we need to move before they start sweeping the streets.”
Spencer straightened. “Back to Birkenbrew?”
Oakland nodded.
They moved.
* * *
They took 12th Street quickly, heads down, breaths still ragged from running. The sirens were distant—far enough not to be an immediate problem, but too close to ignore.
Overhead, drones and Vipers whipped through the air, scanning and searching.
The group clung to the edges of buildings, dipping beneath tree cover, staying low and hidden.
Derek limped beside Oakland, his face still bloody, his hand clutching his ribs. Christine was pacing ahead, frantically searching for a car to pick them up.
“Come on, COME ON,” she muttered, squinting at her phone. No nearby vehicles were available. Aside from the cops, the only people left in the area were either fleeing the protest or seeking a fight.
Which meant they weren’t safe yet.
Oakland’s skin was still humming, still prickling with something instinctual.
They escaped the worst of the brawl in the square. But that didn’t mean it was over.
And then?—
A voice. Low, mean, laced with teasing. The kind that knew exactly where to cut.
“Hey Fags.”
The group froze.
Up ahead, a cluster of men in red stepped out from the side street, their faces smeared with the same smug arrogance Oakland had seen her whole life.
One of them cracked his knuckles. Another just smiled.
They weren’t just here to gloat.
They were here to finish something.
Derek’s expression flipped instantly from exhausted to completely, aggressively unserious.
“Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath. “You trolls still can’t think of a better insult?”
Christine stepped forward, positioning herself in front of Oakland and Derek—between danger and the people she refused to let be hurt. Her fists curled instinctively, ready, steady, unshaken.
Silver bristled beside Spencer. “We don’t want trouble.”
One of them—tall, thick-necked, maybe in his late thirties—tilted his head toward Derek.
“You’re the guy that ran your mouth back there, didn’t you?”
Derek spat blood onto the pavement before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah. I did.”
“You should’ve kept it shut.”
Derek sighed dramatically, tilting his head. “Aw, I’m sorry. Did I hurt your feelings, Daddy?”
Oakland nudged him, firm and quiet. “Shut up, Derek,” she said under her breath.
The guy’s face twisted. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”
Derek grinned, radiating the kind of unbothered energy that only he could achieve. “Don’t get angry, Daddy. You wanted my attention, right? Or were you just hoping I’d let you throw the first punch so you could feel like a big, strong boy?”
That did it.
One of them lunged.
Christine moved fast, stepping into his charge, catching him mid-motion with a sharp elbow to the ribs. The breath left his body in a strangled gasp as he doubled over, staggering back.
No time to think—another one swung for Oakland. She twisted out of the way just in time, then threw her weight forward, slamming a shoulder into his gut. His boots scraped against the pavement as he stumbled back, crashing into the brick wall behind him with a dull, painful thud.
The air felt thick, charged with adrenaline, heat, and the sharp tang of blood.
And then, a third guy turned on Silver.
And sneered.
“Fucking dyke.”
She barely registered the words before his hand snapped out.
The slap cracked through the air like a whip.
Silver’s head jerked sideways, pain flaring hot and fast across her cheek. Her vision blurred, her balance faltered, and the taste of copper bloomed in her mouth.
Before she could react?—
Spencer moved.
Fast. Too fast.
She hit the guy like a freight train.
Not a punch. A full-body, hockey-trained check.
Spencer’s shoulder slammed into his ribs, driving him back so hard his feet lifted off the ground. He hit the pavement with a sickening thud, the impact jolting through his body as he choked on a gasping breath.
Silver exhaled, dazed. “Holy shit.”
But Spencer wasn’t done.
Another one came at her, fist flying toward her jaw. She dodged, but not fast enough.
The punch caught her shoulder.
Pain detonated down Spencer’s arm, a sharp, searing shock that threw her off balance. She barely registered the stumble before her foot hit empty space—the curb, the street, the rush of air around her.
Headlights.
A low, mechanical hum.
She turned just as the car appeared—too fast, too close.
Impact.
The bumper struck her mid-fall, hard enough to rip her feet from the ground. Her body folded over the hood, spine bending at an unnatural angle before momentum sent her flying.
She flipped, weightless for half a second, then slammed into the roof.
The force knocked her loose and sent her tumbling over the back windshield. Air blurred past her ears.
Then—
The pavement.
It met her like a hammer, the weight of her body crashing down with brutal finality. The sound of it—flesh and bone against concrete—wasn’t loud, but it was absolute.
The driverless car kept moving. Never slowed. Never swerved. Never registered that it just hit a fucking person.
The fight died with it.
No fists. No shouting. Just silence.
For half a breath, no one moved.
Then, Silver ran full speed and dropped to her knees beside Spencer.
Oakland flinched at the sound of it, the hard smack of skin on pavement.
Blood was already smearing beneath Silver’s knees, soaking through the fabric of her jeans where she’d hit too fast, too hard.
But she didn’t seem to notice. She was already reaching for Spencer’s face, her hands desperate and shaking, searching for breath, for movement, for anything.
Nothing.
Oakland couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.
Silver’s hands pressed harder, trembling against Spencer’s bloodied skin. Spencer wasn’t moving. Wasn’t making a sound. Her body was limp, too still, too quiet.
Silver looked like she wanted to shake her—needed to—but instead, she touched her face gently, her fingers brushing dirt and blood away like she could clean her back into existence.
“Spencer,” she whispered again, voice splintering. “Please. Come on.”
Oakland watched as Silver leaned in close, their foreheads nearly touching.
“Wake up. Please—open your eyes. Say something. Anything.”
Christine’s voice shattered the moment, screaming into her phone, begging for an ambulance, sharp and raw and frantic.
Oakland paced like she was possessed, her pulse thundering in her ears.
She kept scanning the street, searching for help, for a miracle, for anything that could undo what just happened.
Her lungs couldn’t catch up. Her mind couldn’t settle.
She didn’t know where to look, because everywhere she looked, Spencer was still on the ground.
Derek stood frozen, staring at the dark pool spreading beneath Spencer’s head.
Her blood.
Oakland’s throat closed around it. Her stomach turned over.
That stain wasn’t going away.
The guys in red had already taken off—cowards scattering into the shadows—but the damage was done. And the sirens, distant but growing, did nothing to fill the sickening silence that settled over them.
Oakland’s eyes snapped back to Spencer.
Still as stone.
Still as night.
Still—too fucking still.
?