Page 98 of Pretty Savage: Defy

Thirty faces turn toward me at once, and I have to resist the urge to step back. It reminds me of the night I met Carrson in the backyard of Ashford House, after he’d killed Trent, the Jackal drug dealer. All those men looking at me in unison, waiting to see what happened next.

A Brother named Tipson ambles out of the crowd, his attention traveling over me with interest.

“Laurel thought of this? A trip to a strip club?” He comes closer. “Is this why you’ve been hiding her away, Carrson? You want to keep all the fun to yourself?”

He reaches toward me as though he intends to brush a curl from my shoulder.

Carrson catches his wrist before he can make contact.

“There are twenty-seven bones in your hand,” Carrson says. His voice is low, almost conversational. “Eight carpals. Five metacarpals. Fourteen phalanges.”

He applies more pressure and Tipson’s knees buckle.

Tipson claws at Carrson’s hand with his free one. “Chill, man. I wasn’t going to do anything. I was joking.”

“I’m not.”

Carrson bends the wrist another degree. Tipson falls to one knee on the stone, making a whining sound in the back of his throat.

No one moves. All the faces around me are calm, unsurprised. They’ve seen this Carrson before.

“Touch her,” Carrson says, “and I’ll start with your fingertips. By the time I reach your wrist, you’ll never hold a fork without remembering me.”

Tipson tries to pull free, but Carrson holds him until the amusement leaves his face and panic takes its place.

Carrson releases him.

Tipson stumbles backward, cradling his hand against his chest. Carrson doesn’t follow. He only watches until Tipson lowers his eyes.

“What’s the decision, Carrson?” asks Wesleyson, breaking the tension. “Can the Sisters come with us?”

“Why should I care?” Carrson’s eyes find mine, but they’re a void, dark and empty. “I’m not in charge of what they do.”

To prove his point, he looks at my chest, right where the brand is hidden by my shirt.

“Perfect.” Sam and the rest of the girls push past the boys toward the limos. “Let’s go!”

There’s a lot of shuffling over by the limos, negotiations over who’s riding together. Arguments break out when one limo has too many people and another not enough. Giggles and grunts ring out as everyone climbs over one another, piling into the long bench seats.

“Jesus, Abbie, move over,” Tipson complains. “You kneed me in the nuts.”

“Gross,” Cicley says.

She uses Tipson as an excuse to scoot closer to Brentson, who she has a crush on. I know because she’s told me approximately five hundred times how dreamy his green eyes are.

Carrson’s next to me but pressed into the door at his side like touching me might set him on fire.

I turn toward Sam and try to lose myself in everyone else.

Soon, we’re all singing along with the radio, dancing in our seats.

Sam brings out a flask of whiskey, and it gets passed around. I take a gulp, drinking too fast. The alcohol burns down my throat, and I choke. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carrson’s hand rise with his fingers splayed like he’s going to pat me on the back, but then it falls and he tucks it back in his lap where it closes into a fist.

I turn up the song and sing louder.

By the time we reach the stretch of road lined with strip clubs, warmth has spread through my limbs. My lips feel faintly numb, and the tension in my muscles has loosened enough that I can almost pretend I’m having fun.

Bright lights outside the window catch my attention. I press my nose to the glass, my mouth hanging open in wonder. Neon curls around old brick facades. Bulbs chase one another along theater signs. Music spills from open doorways, jazz colliding with bass, laughter with the clink of glasses.