“See how quick things flipped here?” Royce grins. “I get one by you and your weak ass five, in your school, and just like that, the torch is in my hand.”
“You better watch it, asshole. You know nothing about us.”
Royce laughs, and I hold my breath.
I’m pretty sure he’s getting a kick out of this.
Whispers start, growing louder and louder.
Royce and Mac notice, their eyes locking across the court as Mac gingerly slides closer, but when Royce gives an almost unnoticeable jerk of his chin, he pauses, his foot right at the edge of the white painted line on the blacktop. He’s close enough to make it over fast if needed, but not so close to draw attention to his presence.
Right then, the reason for the added attention steps through the crowd.
Franky Briggs, the two-sport athlete, son of the police chief, and the worst possible person to step up right now. And my cousin’s boyfriend who lives to take digs at me.
Royce senses him, and glances over his shoulder.
Micah chuckles, prepared for the new guy to tuck and run at the sight of the six-foot-two, most loved, star student, but they’d don’t know a king in the making stands in front of him, and not of the royal kind.
A six-foot-one savage leader with a knack for trouble, and while Franky has that single inch on him, Royce stands as tall and confident as the clouds, full and uncontrolled, above us all.
Too bad for Franky, his head is up there with him, so he doesn’t notice the ease in which Royce stands.
Franky pauses a few feet behind him and claps his hands.
Micah smirks next, and chucks the ball, intending to rainbow it nice and clean over Royce’s head to Franky, but Royce jumps up with the ease of a pro, spiking it from the air.
The ball goes flying.
I know the second he clips it where it’s headed, and I try to squeeze away, to get lost or hidden in the masses, but everyone’s moved in so tight around me now I can’t, and after a few low bounces, the ball rolls closer, pausing mere inches from my feet.
If Royce saw me before he didn’t let on, but he definitely does now, Franky too.
Well, this sucks.
Royce turns his entire body, now facing me full-on, and a slow, mischievous smirk appears.
He holds his hands up lazily. “Ball me, baby girl.”
My neck heats and I kind of want to punch him, but to avoid a potentially worse situation, I move for the ball. Of course before I can attempt to grab it, Franky is there kicking it away.
He steps up, blocking me from Royce completely, and stares down his nose with a heavy glare.
“Baby girl?” he hisses with disgust. “Did the trash bring in more trash to keep her company?”
“That would really bother you, wouldn’t it?” The moment it leaves my mouth, I almost wish I could take it back.
Almost.
Franky’s eyes harden more, but I’m not going to stand here while he plays broadcaster in an effort to tear me down. It won’t work and he knows it, which is what drives him in the first place, but that won’t stop him from trying.
Or cornering me when I’m alone and he knows nobody is watching.
I turn, ready to walk the hell away, but Franky shoots a hand out, gripping on to my upper arm, and tugs me toward him.
The slightest of jolts zips through my chest, and I whip around, ready to serve him in the nuts, but in the time it takes me to spin toward him, he’s already buckling before me.
The hand that was attached to my arm quickly falls, Franky’s knees hitting the ground with a hard crunch.
“Fuck!” he shouts with a low growl.
People begin shouting and gasping around us, and as the mob continues to grow larger and louder, Franky’s head pops up.
In the same second, a new set of arms wrap around my middle, and I’m tugged away with a gentle force.
“Hey, what—”
“Girl, you better hope that’s not the boyfriend you mentioned,” is whispered in my ear, and when I glance behind me, it’s Mac I find, but he’s not looking at me. He stares straight ahead, a tense expression drawing lines along his forehead.
I focus forward as Royce plants his foot back on the ground, and when his gaze comes up to lock with mine, I pull in a lungful of air.
As black as a winter’s night, his eyes spear mine, cold and dark with no sign of life in sight.
A monster in the light.
This is the Royce Brayshaw I was told about.
The one who transforms in the blink of an eye.
Gone is the cocky playboy, and in his place stands a daunting disaster waiting to happen.
There’s no stopping what comes next.
Or at least that’s what I hear.
Royce lets him stand, even moves away to give him the space to do so, and when Franky comes swinging, Royce plants his feet and takes the hit square in his jaw.
Royce’s body doesn’t waver on impact, but his head jolts slightly.
Franky laughs, fists up and ready to go in again, but when Royce’s dark chuckle is what follows, they lower the smallest bit.
Royce looks to the side, spitting blood from the corner of his mouth, and when he turns back, it’s with his full body, his right hand coming with it and in with a speed so quick there’s no preparing.
He nails Franky square in the temple.
Franky stumbles and comes back swinging, but Royce dips.
He evades like a well-practiced maniac, and as he straightens again, he does so lifting Franky’s two-hundred and thirty-pound body from the ground, all to slam him back against it.
His head hits with a hard whack, causing everyone around us to panic and my muscles to turn to stone.
Franky’s eyes roll backward, and my temples start to throb.
A few attempt to rush forward, but one look from Royce and they freeze.
They’re seeing it, his complete and total nonchalance.
He lifts his thumb, dabbing at his cut lip as his eyes snap my way.
Royce taps his shoe against Franky’s ribs, his chest rising and falling angrily as he watches me through blank eyes. “This your man?”
He doesn’t have to verbalize the threat, his gravelly tone is packed and laced with an I dare you to lie ribbon, one he might just wrap around my throat and strangle me with should I even try.
I shake my head no, focused on the vein in his neck as it throbs heavily beneath his bronzed skin, the tease of the tattoos there, and with each kick of his pulse, my own rises.
My brother constantly reminds me how I’m to fear all who hold the Brayshaw name, but standing here, staring into the shadowy eyes of one, I feel none.
Not even a hint.
The opposite in fact, as the throbbing at my temples seems to dwindle.
Does that make me a fool?
My muscles loosen, Mac’s hold on me following suit.
I shake my head no again, and this time more confident than before.
Franky catches it and a harsh scoff leaves him.
“Brielle’s man?” he taunts, purposely loud for his peers. “You must be new. No one here would touch that.”
Franky begins pushing to his feet, but Royce’s large hand lands on his shoulder, and with what appears as no effort, shoves him right back down.
Head after head snaps from me to them, and I know their minds are spinning.
I can guess the question at the tip of their tongues.
How do I, the out of place charity case, possibly know him, a filthy god in the flesh?