Aftermath(32)

I nod a farewell and start around Football Player, who seems the most likely to stand in dumb silence and let me pass. Which he does. But the guy still in the truck, the silent one, springs to life, swinging out the passenger door to cut me off.

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives his friends a “Well, dumb-asses, say something” look.

Ginger Dude saunters over. “You used to be friends with Mandal, right?”

“Jesse? Sure.”

“We spotted him around the corner and wondered what he was doing in this neighborhood. I heard you’re staying with your aunt, the dyke who’s, like, a CEO or something.”

I open my mouth to call him on the slur, but he’s still going. “This seems like the kind of neighborhood she’d live in. That explains why Mandal’s hanging around. You and him are meeting up, huh?”

“Supposed to be,” I say, because I’m becoming increasingly aware of how quiet this street is, most of the shops – including the pub – either closed or not yet open for the evening.

“Well, you missed him over there,” Ginger Dude says. “And you might want to keep missing him.”

I arch my brows.

“You’re new here, Skye. Well, newly returned. And you’re having trouble, right? Kids hassling you? Kids can be assholes.” He manages to say this with an utter lack of irony. “It might be tempting to fall back on old friends. But Mandal’s the wrong kind of friend, if you know what I mean.”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“He’s trouble. Like his brother. You know the truth about the shooting, right?”

I stiffen.

Ginger Dude continues, “It was his fault. Jamil Mandal’s. Your brother and his friends were just trying to stop him.”

“Stop Jamil from —?” I cut myself short as I realize I really don’t want to continue this ridiculous conversation. “I’m going to let you guys go enjoy your Saturday night. Don’t drink too much. It seems like you may have already had a few.”

I know better than to turn my back on them. So I reverse for a few feet, and then veer to go around them and hoof it to the coffee shop. As soon as I back up, though, Ginger Dude grabs my arm.

I throw him off with a “Hey!”

“What? You can dish it out, but you can’t take it?”

I screw up my face. “What the hell are you —?”

Deep breath. I’m not dealing with mental giants here.

I say, “Look, you’ve had your fun, but —”

“Oh, we haven’t started to have our fun, Skye.”

Yeah, I walked into that one. Deep breath. Take two.

“I appreciate the advice about Jesse.” Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. “But I’m actually just meeting my aunt at the coffee shop over there.”

“Right, the dyke aunt. She teaching you anything? Maybe something we should unteach you?”

I have to bite my tongue hard not to WTF them.

“You guys want to take potshots?” I say. “Go ahead. You have two minutes. Insult me, insult my family, my friends. Get it out of your system.”

“You’ve got a smart mouth. How about I show you a better way to use it?”

Don’t respond. Don’t respond. Don’t —

“The way I use it is just fine,” I say. “Now get your ass out of my way before I kick it.”

Ginger Dude snickers. He grabs for me. I wait until his fingers wrap around my arm, and there is absolutely zero chance he’s just testing me. Then I slam my foot into his shin and seize his arm, and as he stumbles, I throw him down.

“There,” I say. “Ass kicked. Now, you other guys? I suggest you decide I’m beneath your notice and help your buddy back into the truck. The alternative is that you can try kicking my ass, and between the three of you, I’m sure you can, but someone’s going to notice, and then you’ll be the three jocks who beat up a girl.”

The silent guy nods to Football Player, telling him to let it go. Ginger Dude pretends the message isn’t meant for him, too.

“Grant.” Quiet Guy breaks his vow of silence. “Drop it.”

“You think I’m walking away from some smart-mouth bitch —”

“— who put you down?” his friend continues. “Yeah. Come on.”

I nod in thanks, and Quiet Guy seems surprised but then gives a curt nod and grabs Grant’s arm. “Drop it, bud.”

“Screw you, Marco. I’m teaching her a lesson.”

Grant lunges at me, breaking from Marco’s grip.

I backpedal, and Marco is hauling Grant away when a voice shouts, “Leave her alone!”

Skye

I know that voice. I turn, saying, “I’ve got this,” and Grant hits me from behind. I’m going down on one knee, twisting in recovery, easily ducking Grant, but Jesse charges. I get in his path, hands flying up, and he stops short.

“It’s cool,” I say.

“Doesn’t look that way to me.” Jesse sidesteps and bears down on Grant. “You have something to say to her? Say it to me.”

“Seriously?” I say. “Did someone spike your OJ with testosterone?” I grab the back of Jesse’s jacket. “It’s under control. They were just leaving.”