Rush (Carolina Bad Boys, #5)(15)

Shy’s gaze swept to me and locked in quickly before she glanced away. “I can’t. Too much to do.”

“C’mon. I bought Ashe a bikini to show off her bodacious baby-momma-body. Cat and Nicky will be there with little Danny. You should meet the whole crew.”

Rising to her feet, Shy clasped her hands in front of herself. Her expression again looked longing . . . wistful.

She shut that down, though, shaking her head. “Not tonight. But thank you so much for asking, Brodie. That’s very sweet.”

We tromped through her condo after cleaning up the empties and the mess on the deck, and left on the elevator.

I’d hugged her with a safe amount of distance between us, keeping my hands on her shoulders even while her light perfume drifted over me.

And she stood outside as the doors slid shut, leaving her alone.

Two seconds later, and the dudes started in:

“She’s so ready to join the Cult of Handsome.” Tail held out his fist for a bump that wasn’t coming.

Instead I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Are you blind or somethin’? Shiloh is into you, my man.” Brodie knocked his boot against my foot.

My jaw clenched . . . hard.

“Hey”—Coletrane lounged back—“if you’re not going after her then I might—”

Unleashing a snarl that came out of nowhere, I cranked my forearm against his throat and leaned in. “Shut the fuck up, Cole. Warned you once already. Not gonna do it again.”

Cole’s eyes weren’t the only ones to pop out of his head. I felt Brodie’s and Tail’s shocked stares, too.

I was seriously pissed off, and it showed as I shoved my thick forearm even harder against Cole.

I never lost my shit. Not like this. Not with a friend.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened. I let Cole go.

Stepping out first, I expected Cole to come right back at me with a punch or a tackle—the man met me muscle for muscle, and it would be a fight for the centuries—but he clasped my shoulder in a bro move instead.

“Hey. Didn’t mean to disrespect your lady,” he apologized.

Spinning around, I knocked his hand off me. “She is not my lady.”

“Got it.” With his hands held up, he nodded. “And I won’t mention her again.”

The ride back to Mt. Pleasant found Brodie and me trapped in the tense silence of my making inside the goddamn U-Haul.

“Brah, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’ve never seen you lose it before—and you’ve gone a little serial-killer-scary twice over Shiloh now. You can talk to me if you need to, you know?” Brodie broke the edgy atmosphere, but his words didn’t alleviate a single bit of my sudden frustration.

“Just drop me at Retribution so I can get my bike. Not in the mood to hang tonight.”

Nice. Alienating my buddies over a girl I shouldn’t want and definitely couldn’t have. Psychology degree? What a waste of good fucking paper that was.

I took the fast ride to my house on the back of my 1959 Harley, letting the breeze cool my face, cool my . . . what? I didn’t even fucking know anymore.

The memories Shy had dredged up were pale shadows of past wrongdoings that hardly haunted me anymore.

Something else.

Something I didn’t want to process. What a fucking pussy word that was.

I chuckled to myself, turning into my driveway—hoped Bo had enjoyed processing his shit with Doc Ronnie today because he’d missed my very own fuck-up.

I hit the kickstand, killed the engine, tugged off my helmet. Then something prickled along my spine, and I slowed my movements.

Unstraddling the motorcycle, I pivoted around, pulling my bowie knife free at the same time.

“Hey, Rush.” Diablo the asshole ambled in front of me from the curb.

He’d taken the throne of Satan’s League after the final time I’d been arrested.

I’d come up with the name of the street racing gang because ha ha the opposite of Ivy League, where I was supposed to go to college. When I still had money to throw around and a reputation to destroy.

You know, before I grew up.

“What the fuck do you want?” I flashed my blade at the dude whose smile didn’t reach the corners of his lips.





Chapter Eight


Better the Devil You Know?





DIABLO WASN’T UNARMED. THE gun at his hip flashed like his snaky grin. “Rush. Or are you Handsome now?”

I grasped the leather hilt of my knife. “Asked you a question, fuckhead.”

“Saw you today. Downtown. Looks like you got a sweet hookup goin’ on.”

“You’re fucking following me?”

“Nah. Just hang outside your folks’ now and then when the mood hits.” He slid closer. “They got nice digs. So does your girlfriend. Shiloh Lockhart, ain’t it?”

And that right there was the boiling point.

I strafed toward him, shaving up the side of his neck with my bowie knife. I twisted the blade, the sick-sharpened edge reddening his skin, on the verge of drawing blood.

“You want a murder rap, pendejo?”

“I want you out of my fucking face and my life once and for all.”

“That’s where we got an impasse or whatever.” Diablo lifted his chin to alleviate the pressure of my blade against his neck.