Uppercut Princess (The Heights Crew #1)(52)

I turn my head to answer, but Johnny’s on me. He presses his lips to mine. They’re hungry and bruising, claiming me right there in front of everyone. He forces my lips open and my head back, taking my mouth for his. He dives his tongue inside, pushing it against my own, moving against me until he abruptly pulls away, and I’m left reeling.

“Answer the man again. Do you want to kiss him?”

Angry tears form in the corners of my eye. I didn’t kiss him back, but I doubted anyone noticed. He just stole a kiss from me. To prove a fucking point. “No,” I growl.

Johnny tucks me into his side and turns toward the man. “Do you still want to fight me? Because you won’t even get the prize you desire.” His hand moves over my dress, skittering across my rib. I worry for a moment he’s going to palm me in front of everybody.

The guy sneers at me. “You’re a whore,” he postulates. “A stupid whore.”

I flinch.

Oscar swings first. Surprisingly. He knocks the guy to the side, but Magnum jumps into action, getting in a good left cross before pulling the waiter’s arms behind his body and holding him for Johnny. Instead of hitting him, Johnny spits in his face. Saliva hits his cheek and starts to run, coating his skin. “I’ll let Kyla do the honors.”

I’m reeling so hard, I can barely see. His words hit me, scarring the surface like a tattoo, except those weren’t pretty words or images. It’s nothing I’d ever want written over my body. Nothing like the canvas Brawler has created for himself.

Disgust rolls through me. Johnny took something from me I didn’t want to give. “He’s not worth my time,” I say, trying to wrangle myself under control.

My arms itch with the need to take my aggression out on something, but not with this guy. I refuse to stoop to his level.

“I guess it’s on us, boys,” Johnny says, delight in his voice. “He doesn’t deserve the spotlight, let’s take him out back. Oscar, stay with Kyla.”

Magnum drags the waiter out the door. His feet thunk on every step as Johnny follows casually. They don’t even draw the attention of the crowd.

“Are you okay?” Oscar asks, moving forward, his arm outstretched.

I move out of his way. “Don’t touch me.”

I’m trying to stop the emotion from showing on my face, but I can’t. It keeps teeming there, threatening to spill over. Worse yet, Oscar keeps looking at me as if he knows what I’m feeling.

He backs off when I tell him to, though. I turn toward the fight, immediately finding Brawler in the crowd. He’s not hard to miss. He’s bigger than most everyone out there. Unlike everyone else, he, however, doesn’t miss the scene with Magnum dragging someone out the side door. He gazes up to meet my eyes, and I look away.

Not Brawler. Not right now.

“Are you okay?” Oscar asks, concern threading through every word.

“I’m not fine china,” I seethe.

“Duh,” Oscar says plainly. The word is so out of place in this conversation that it makes me want to laugh, but all I have to do is call up what that guy just called me, and my stomach sinks again. “Sometimes other shit can hurt worse than a punch to the face.”

I press my lips together and try not to look at him. I’m always saying that. Physical shit hurts far less than grief, anger, and depression, emotions that well up that you don’t have an outlet for.

When he doesn’t say anything else, I look over at him. He’s got a faraway look on his face like he’s remembering something. Or going through something. “Looks like you know about that,” I say, tentatively.

He nods. “Yeah, I do. Don’t we all?”

“I guess.”

I wonder if this has anything to do with his time in Spring Hill. Or maybe it’s that he can’t play football like he wants to. Then again, I’m probably far off. Maybe it’s family shit like mine. Or the fact that he thought he had an out, but now he’s stuck here again, not knowing if he’ll ever get a chance to leave again.

To change the subject, I ask, “Did you win your football game?”

His dark eyes shutter, then blaze while he answers. “Kicked ass actually.”

“Congratulations.”

I have a feeling he still wants to ask me who I am, but instead, he asks, “You like football?”

“It’s okay,” I tell him, more comfortable with this line of questioning. “I like fighting. I like competition. I like the idea of winners and losers.”

“So, you like things black and white? That rarely happens.”

“In sports it does.”

“In the game itself, maybe, unless you have corrupt referees or unfair rules. Directly outside the competition itself, there can be so much gray. I’ve done some dirty shit in the name of football.” He jams his hands into his pockets.

“For football? Or for you?”

“For me, I guess.”

Footsteps sound on the stairs. Glancing over, I find Johnny stomping up them, taking his suit jacket off and throwing it on the railing. Blood is spattered all over his crisp white shirt.

I don’t know how to feel about this. I’m not going to lie. A sick satisfaction rolls through me that Johnny kicked the guy’s ass for calling me a whore. If that’s why he did it.