When Winch looks over at me, his blue eyes are hot and serious.
"Do not leave this car. Sit on the hood, the roof, inside, but don't you dare leave this car. Understood?"
I glance through the crowd, undulating as groups of people jab back and forth, throwing themselves into the fray, and backing up away from the heat just as quickly. Winch's hands grip mine, and I jump, meeting his intense gaze.
"I get it," I promise him.
He leans over and cups my face with his hand, runs his thumb over my cheekbone, brushes his lips over mine, eyes shut tight, brow furrowed.
"You gotta forgive me for this, ahead of time, okay? It's what I have to do, like it or not. Forgive me, Evan?"
His voice is so desperate, there's nothing else to say. "Of course. Be safe. Promise me, Winch?"
"As safe as I can be."
His lips are hot and hard on mine, and I want more, want him, all of him, with me, all alone.
The crowd rushes the car when they recognize it’s his, and I lose him in a throng of cheering, drunk guys who pull at him and draw him toward some cleared center, where the lineup is denser and, I'm sure, more vicious.
I grab the keys Winch left on the seat, slide out the door, depress the locks, and try to make it out of the space between the car and the opened door as I elbow against the wave of people crushing in on all sides. I get pushed back into the interior twice by the lines and groups of people coming from nowhere and everywhere to see what, I don't know yet.
Their enthusiasm is unsettling. This is Roman Colosseum excitement, and I stand on my tiptoes to catch Winch's back, the muscles of his shoulders strained through the thin fabric of his shirt. Worry needles at the edge of my throat, but I try to tell myself it will be okay. Winch is strong and smart. He's used to this kind of violence. This is his world, and he knows how to navigate it.
But I don't believe my own comforting words. I scramble onto the gunmetal grey hood, careful not to make a dent, but I still can't see, so I pull up onto the roof. It's not much better. Not only is there a thick congregation of stark, raving lunatics screaming in the middle of all this, there are more bodies heaving and shoving every second.
I see a huge guy, big as a black bear on its hind legs, with thick ropes of dread-locked hair and a scruffy, coarse beard, batting people away with the flats of his enormous hands.
"Move outta the way, fuckups! Anyone touches these girls, you have me to answer to!"
People repel away from him, giving him a clean, clear circle amid the chaos.
Five or six made-up, dressed-up, phone-addicted teenage girls cluster and disperse a few feet from him, always in his orbit, but never too close to their hulk of a bodyguard. Seeing my chance, I slide off the car and fall into the guy's shadow, melding in with the group of girls quietly. I don't stand close enough that I'd be considered one of them, but I don't stray so far away that anyone would bother me.
The air is hot and sticky, and there's the bitter/sour smell of beer everywhere. At this point the only kind of violence going on is screaming, one red-faced, sweaty guy with his shirt half off yelling at another growling, teeth-bared idiot with his fists up, small groups of divided alliances hurling insults at other small groups, most involving mothers and fucking. It's vocally cacophonous, but bearable, because there's no real bloodshed.
But it feels like real violence is simmering right under the lid of this pot of boiling emotions, ready to explode at any second. That would make sense. Violence in books and movies is always like a powder keg and a spark, and this jostling, yelling, inarticulate, drunk crowd is crawling a clear path to open-season chaos.
I keep one eye on my bear-like protector and move closer to the main ring. I guess I was waiting for this to work like a boxing match, with a referee making the fighters knock gloves and a little bell to ding before things get too awful, but I suddenly realize the brawl already started and it’s anything but a civil, fair fight.
The people in the tightest inner ring seem to be taking bets and keeping score, but I don't know how it all works.
Remy, thin and wiry, dark hair falling into his blue eyes, slight beer gut giving him an older, sloppy look, hops in the middle, bobbing and weaving back and forth, fists up, blood already leaking in small strands from his nose and mouth. He takes a bare knuckle hit to his eye, and the ferocious smack of skin and bone on skin and bone makes my stomach churn.
Remy shakes his head back and forth a few times, snorts, and runs at the guy who hit him, a brawny blond with a ruddy face. He knocks headfirst into the guy's stomach, throwing him to the ground with such intensity, he knocks the wind right out of his opponent.
Half the crowd erupts into shattering cheers, half hisses and snarls with jeers and threats.
"One more, Youngblood! Take that Murray fucker down!" Remy's fans roar.
There are tons of them, and they all gasp in horror when the blond guy catches his breath and comes up swinging, packing a blow on each side of Remy's head. Remy falls back into the arms of a guy who calls out some numbers, drags him back, and pushes Winch into the middle.
The entire crowd suddenly loses its volume and focus and my vision blurs at the edges and stretches back and forth with a swooning dip and hurl.
He's stripped off the white shirt, and he's all flat-packed muscles and smooth tanned skin, with more tattoos then I had a chance
