Fighting Dirty
Page 48

SOON AS CARTER took off, Denver joined him, getting into the passenger seat of his truck without fanfare, then strapping on his seat belt.
Surprised, Armie cocked a brow. “Am I playing chauffeur?”
“To Bray’s house, yeah. I decided to go along. You can drop me off here on your way home.”
What the hell? He didn’t need a babysitter. “You want to tell me why?”
With a roll of one shoulder, Denver said, “I’m worried about the kid, too.”
That was acceptable, but then Denver went on.
“And you have a fight soon. If shit goes sideways, no reason for you to chance getting hurt.”
“Get out of my truck.”
Denver grinned at him. “Nope.”
“Asshole.”
Unperturbed, Denver nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Sighing, Armie put the truck in gear and pulled away. As he drove, he waited, but Denver didn’t ask him about Carter’s visit, a fact he couldn’t ignore. “Denver?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
As if he’d expected it, Denver said, “There ya go.”
Just to lighten the mood, Armie asked, “Will Cherry be at home pining for you while you act as my escort tonight?”
“Maybe.” He slanted Armie a look of complete satisfaction. “The way that girl pines is enough to make me rip my jeans.”
Armie laughed. “She loves you. That’s a good thing.”
“Very good.”
“And vice versa.”
“She’s mine,” Denver said in agreement. “As it turns out, though, she’s out with Yvette, Vanity and Harper. The guys are helping Stack get some equipment set up.”
Armie wondered if he could ever claim Merissa as his. In his heart, he’d done so long ago—but his brain had always insisted it wasn’t meant to be.
And now, with creeps skulking around and leaving anonymous notes on windshields...
His thoughts came to a screeching halt when he pulled up to the small clapboard house that matched Bray’s address. Through the open windows, rank curses echoed around the neighborhood. As Armie sat there—only seconds really—the warped screen door flew open and Bray shot out, tripping over his own feet.
A big bastard lumbered out after him. Dressed in his boxers and a wife-beater undershirt, he stumbled and cursed as he gave chase, fists bunched, face florid—and unfortunately, he caught Bray by the back of the shirt, literally yanking the boy off his feet so that he hit the ground hard.
Behind them a woman cried, feebly tugging at the man’s arm.
Both truck doors slammed as Armie and Denver moved at the same time. When Bray tried to get up, the man slung him back to the ground, and to Armie’s disbelief, the miserable fuck lifted his boot to kick. The woman sobbed, begging...
“That’s enough!”
Armie’s command drew everything to a halt. Hell, even the birds in the trees stopped chirping. Stiff necked, Bray rolled away, the man quickly redirected his anger at Armie and the woman slumped down to sit on a broken porch step, her gaze darting everywhere.
Denver’s heavy stride kept pace, but he allowed Armie to speak. “Bray, come here.”
White with shock, Bray looked up—and no one could miss the wet, red eyes, or the suppressed rage and shame.
Jesus, Armie wanted to kill someone, preferably the man manhandling a fifteen-year-old kid.
Bray stood, shouldering a sleeve over each cheek to remove dirt and, probably, tears. He didn’t come to Armie, so with Denver at his side, Armie went to him.
As they neared, the guy eyed him and Denver with loathing, then hauled Bray close, keeping him caught in his grip. “This isn’t your business.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong about that.” Without slowing, Armie strode right up to the man until he met him, chest to chest. It’d be so easy, so fucking easy, to give the bastard a taste of his own abuse. Instead, Armie glanced at the hand on Bray’s arm, and whispered, “Turn him loose.”
Narrowing his eyes and smiling slowly, the man did just that, giving Bray a shove that sent him back to his ass again.
Armie crowded closer. “That was a miserable, chicken-shit move. You any better at pushing around grown men, or do you specialize in boys?”
“Bray,” the woman said, her voice high and shrill and fearful. “What’s going on? Who are these people?”
Leaving the man to Armie, Denver approached the woman, hand extended. “I’m Denver Lewis, ma’am. And that’s my friend, Armie Jacobson. We’re Bray’s friends.”
“What grown men hang with boys?” the man asked.
“We’re from the rec center,” Denver explained.
“Fighters,” she breathed, horrified. “Russell, they’re trained fighters!”
Huh. That changed Russell’s attitude real quick.
The unholy smile disappeared under a cautious frown. He shifted his heavy gaze away and glared at Bray. “Get your ass back in the house.”
“I don’t think so,” Armie said before Bray could reply one way or the other.
“This ain’t got nothing to do with you!” Russell reached for Bray.
Armie stepped into his path. Keeping his tone calm but firm, he asked, “You’re his father?”
Bray snorted. “No.”
The man snapped, again reaching for Bray. “You better watch that smart mouth, boy!”
Armie stepped him back, all the way to his porch. That must’ve been pushing the big bully too far, because he threw a wild haymaker, swinging a lunch box–sized fist toward Armie’s face.
With practiced ease Armie lifted his forearm to block the blow, then delivered one short jab to the man’s bloated gut.
Retching, Russell bent double.
The woman, who only moments before had been crying for her son, immediately fell to her knees, frantically caring for the bully.
“Russell? Oh my God, are you okay? Russell?” She pet on him, hugged him, all the while crying.
Russell gave her a shove, but she scrambled right back.
It was like déjà vu for Armie. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. Every muscle in his body twitched.
The woman had her own bruises, but she fawned over the man as if he was some innocent victim.
Disgusted, Armie turned to Bray and found the boy walking away.
Damn. “You got this?” he asked Denver.
Denver blinked. “Uh, sure.”
In a jog, Armie went after Bray. When he caught up, he didn’t touch him, just kept pace. “Where ya going?”
Bray rolled a shoulder, kept his head down and dogged on.
“He’s your stepfather?”
“He’s nothing.” Then, reluctantly, Bray added, “Her boyfriend, I guess. I don’t know.”
“She’s your mother?”
Nothing.
“Can we stop to talk a minute?”
Bray hunched his shoulders more. “No point.”
Shit. Armie stepped around in front of the boy. “Please.”
With a mammoth chip on his shoulder, Bray met his gaze and waited.
Deciding to just get through it, Armie asked, “Has he been around long?”
“Couple of months.”
“He’s hit you? Before today?”