Uppercut Princess (The Heights Crew #1)(9)

With that, he walks away, his giant stride taking him quickly to the stairway door at the end of the hall.

Now that it feels like an entire bucket of ice water has been thrown on me, I step back and slam the door shut. I lock the five locks I have on the door already. Two I installed myself, thank you very much. And then I sit back down in the recliner.

He read me like a damn book.

I spend the next half an hour schooling myself on how to keep my thoughts in check in front of Brawler before I fall asleep for an hour and wake up in time to take the bus to the parking garage where my car is parked. I can’t have anyone knowing I have a car a forty-year-old would drive. Plain, but nice. A tad fancy, but more economical than anything else. It was a gift from my aunt and uncle, but it screams another life. One I can’t show here. I take it to Walmart to grab the lock and bolt cutters, and then I return to the tiny apartment to spend the rest of the evening watching murder mysteries with a bag of frozen vegetables over my forehead.

Before I head to bed, I throw away the cookies Brawler’s mom made. I smile when they thunk one-by-one into the trash. He wasn’t kidding. His mom can’t cook. He probably saved me from chipping a tooth.

Him walking away also saved me from getting involved in something I shouldn’t. I have one focus and one focus only while I’m here.





4





The swelling in my face has gone down the next morning. Heavy makeup hides some of it but it’s still noticeable that I got my ass beat yesterday. It’s a fine line I’m trying to walk, actually. I want to seem demure, but at the same time, I can’t become a target. If I become a target, they’ll stop at nothing to take me down. People prey on the weak. It’s just the hierarchy of things. It’s like the food chain. The lions eat the smaller animals and the smaller animals eat the even smaller animals, plus plants and shit.

I can’t be a plant. Or shit.

I hike my bookbag up my shoulder as I fall in line with the other kids who live in my building who are now making their way toward school. The back of my neck heats. I have no doubt several people stare, wondering why the hell I’m even bothering with school today. Though rough, Rawley Heights isn’t that big. Everyone knows I’m the new girl, and everyone knows Oscar made that declaration about me only lasting two days. Maybe they’re trying to find a way to make that happen. Everyone wants to get on the good side of one of the Heights Crew.

I run my hands through my hair and casually look over my shoulder. Instead of seeing some sharp-eyed bitch making plans for me, I find Brawler. He’s not looking at me. In fact, it’s like he’s making a point not to look at me, which makes me think he was definitely the one giving off the vibe that I was being watched.

His attention unnerves me. It’s what I want—what I need—to accomplish what I’ve come here to do, but I think I’ve gained his attention in a way I didn’t mean to. I should’ve known better than to show my attraction to him, but it was literally impossible to deny. He basically personifies my entire wish list—and he’s in the flesh, not just in my head.

I move to the edge of the sidewalk and slow down, pretending I have to tie my shoes so he’ll pass me. He turns his head to glare at me, and I give him a disinterested look as I kneel. He walks past, and I get a glimpse of his threadbare shirt that’s doing a terrible job of covering up his sinewy muscle. His jeans hug his ass with perfection, and he strides like he’s a runway model though he’d kill anyone who made that reference. It’s the confidence in the way he walks that gives me that vibe, not a flare for the dramatics. He owns himself. People part for him because of who he is, but also the way he carries himself. When he gets to the next street, he stops to lean against the pole littered with rusty, leftover staples, a representation of party fliers from the local bar and clubs.

I know that because that’s where I did my research. That’s where I learned about the Heights Crew. It’s amazing what you can pick up by standing in the shadows of a disgusting bar, watching and listening. Drunk girls have no filter, so it was easy to listen to the names I needed. From there, it was just putting the faces with the names.

A few weeks ago, I witnessed Brawler fight. Well, I witnessed him almost get into a fight which was scary as fuck—and a turn-on. The anger that washed over him crept out of nowhere. Even now, I don’t understand his trigger only that it had something to do with a girl. A girl I don’t even think Brawler is seeing. From what I’ve heard, he’s one of the unattainables. He’s like the guy every girl wants to fuck but can’t get because he always has a girlfriend. With Brawler, there’s no girlfriend, but there’s that same air of don’t even bother. No one gets close enough to him despite rampant attempts by desperate girls.

Before I know it, we’re walking side-by-side on the way to school. Actually, he’s even dropped back a few steps to the same position he was in before I stopped to tie my shoes. I clench my jaw. He must be playing at something. He must be paying just as much attention to me as I am to him, or how would we have ended up there again?

Worry seeps into me. Kids from the Heights are cutthroat. This could be about anything. Brawler could be setting me up. Sure, he didn’t seem all that bad yesterday when he delivered his mother’s terrible fucking cookies to my apartment, but that was outside of school, outside the crew. Family shit doesn’t have anything to do with gangs. They’re two separate entities. A gang banger could do a drive-by and then go home to his kids, reading to them before bed. Does that make him less of a killer?