Play Rough Page 7

  “Careful,” Levi grunts as they come in.

  “Son of a bitch.” Rory curses. “The bleeding hasn’t stopped.”

  My head snaps up. I sit up straighter to look at them, shocked to see Sloan between Rory and Levi, his arms around each of their shoulders. There’s blood staining his shirt, red and vivid against the white fabric, and he looks pale and a little dazed as they get him inside.

  My heart jerks a little to see him like that. In all the time I’ve been here, I’ve never seen him look so… human.

  “What the hell happened?” I ask, getting up to follow them as they head for the kitchen.

  “He got shot,” Levi replies, his voice tight.

  Oh, fuck.

  Of the three of them, Sloan has always seemed the most untouchable. He keeps everyone at a distance with his attitude, even Levi and Rory to a certain extent, and it’s weird now to see him leaning on them, letting them help him get into the kitchen from the front door. He’s not glaring or grumbling, and his jaw is tight, but probably from pain more than anger.

  Between the two of them, the guys get him onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, and Sloan grimaces as he starts to undo his shirt, peeling it away from the wound in his side.

  “Fuck, that hurts,” he grumbles.

  “Course it does. A bullet went clean through your side,” Rory retorts, helping him shrug off the shirt entirely. Even with all the blood, it’s clear to see he got tagged right in the side. It’s not as bad as it could be, but it definitely needs some care.

  Rory goes to rummage in the downstairs bathroom, coming back with the first-aid kit that they probably keep on hand for this exact thing. It’s not like they can just stroll up to a hospital with their guns out and explain what happened. He lays it out on the island and starts pulling together the things he needs to take care of Sloan’s wound.

  Levi pulls a bottle of whiskey from the bar cart and hands it to Sloan, who makes a face and then takes a long pull from the mouth of the bottle.

  “Okay, hold still,” Rory orders.

  With his face set in concentration, he uses some gauze to clean the immediate area of the wound before he brandishes a needle and starts stitching Sloan up.

  Even from where I’m standing, I can see that Rory isn’t doing a great job. His hands aren’t steady enough, and his stitches are sloppy. At best, it’ll leave a jagged scar. At worst, it’ll get infected. I watch for another second, but then I can’t take it anymore.

  “Move,” I say, stepping closer and pushing him out of the way. “Let me do it.”

  Within seconds, my hands are slippery with Sloan’s blood, but I don’t flinch. My eyes are narrowed as I work the needle through his skin, making sure the edges of the wound meet in a neat line. Rory and Levi just stand back and let me work, and I can feel Sloan’s eyes on me as he looks down, watching.

  “How do you know how to do that?” he asks, and he sounds like he’s impressed. It’s a different tone of voice than I’m used to with him, and I force myself not to dwell on it.

  “I’ve done this a bunch before.” I keep my tone neutral, my attention focused on the needle as it slides in and out of his skin, closing the bullet wound up. “For my dad after his fights.”

  Talking about Dad, especially like this, makes a lump form in my throat. I can remember being fourteen or fifteen and stitching closed a head wound he got in a particularly brutal fight.

  He teased me and praised me for my steady hands and for not throwing up at the sight of blood. I remember telling him it took more than blood to rattle me, and him laughing and ruffling my hair before getting us both ice cream while I washed my hands.

  I’m whisked out of that memory by the feeling of fingers on my cheek.

  My whole body stiffens.

  They’re Sloan’s, stroking over my skin in a tender gesture I definitely would not have thought he was capable of even five minutes ago.

  I glance up, surprised, and he looks down at me, holding my gaze. For the first time, there’s no anger or heat in the connection between us, but I’m not quite sure what there is. Whatever this thing is that’s passing between us, it’s soft and gentle… and fucking terrifying.

  My hands shake just a bit, and I use that as an excuse to tear my gaze away from him, refocusing on the task at hand. It’s simple work to finish the last few stitches and tie it off, using the scissors Rory set out to snip the thread.

  “There,” I say, quickly standing up and trying to put distance between me and Sloan. My hands are slick with blood, bright and shiny, and my stomach is churning, although I don’t quite know why. “It’ll probably scar, but it shouldn’t get infected or anything. You’ll just need to keep it clean and—yeah.”

  I clear my throat. If my voice sounds a little shaky, hopefully they’ll think it’s because of the blood on my hands and because I’m freaked out about the shooting or whatever. I need to clean up and get a closed door or something between the two of us, but before I can leave, Sloan reaches out and puts a hand on my arm.

  I turn back, and he’s looking at me again with that same intent expression on his face from just a minute ago, except it’s clearer now. There’s pain in his eyes, and the usually piercing steel-gray is dulled a bit by that and the whiskey. There’s something else there too, lurking around the edges. Something that looks maybe like guilt, and it seems out of place on Sloan of all people.

  “Thank you, Hurricane,” he murmurs quietly.

  Hearing that name from his lips is a surprise. That’s usually a Rory thing, and Sloan hardly ever calls me by my name at all, let alone a nickname.

  The nickname paired with the look in his eyes is too much. The lump is back in my throat, and it feels almost like it’s trying to suffocate me as I stand in front of him.

  It’s all I can do to nod in response before I hurry out, taking the stairs two at a time, heart reeling. I can still feel the phantom sensation of his fingers on my cheek, and I ease my bedroom door closed as quietly as possible before going to the bathroom, trying not to touch anything until I can run water over my hands.

  I flip the tap on and stick my red-slicked hands beneath the hot stream. As the blood begins to wash down the drain, tinting the water pink, I clench my jaw. Confusion is still ricocheting through me, but on top of that, there’s an overwhelming feeling of disappointment in myself.

  Sloan is my enemy, and right now, his blood is on my hands.

  But it’s not from hurting him.

  It’s from helping him.

  9

  We’re all supposed to go to the street race on Saturday night, but as the evening rolls around, I’m pretty much expecting Sloan to bail, considering he was shot last night and all.

  To my shock, though, he comes downstairs at ten, dressed and ready to go.

  I give him a look, but he says nothing. He just stares back at me for a second before Rory comes down behind him, loud and enthusiastic and excited about a night of racing.

  Sloan seems like his usual surly self as we all pile into the car. His wound is still fresh, but it’s obviously not enough to put him out of commission. It’s probably not even the first time something like this has happened, either.

  How many times has he been shot in confrontations with rival gang members?

  He opts to drive, sliding into the front seat and starting the car while Levi climbs into the passenger seat beside him and Rory and I take our places in the back.

  It’s the usual configuration, and for a second, there’s a pang in my chest—a weird feeling of missing the times when things were simpler. That’s kind of absurd, considering those “simpler” days were still from a time when I was basically being held hostage and used as collateral and still trying to keep my connection to these guys from getting any stronger. But at least then, I didn’t feel like I was lying every second of every day. And there wasn’t the heavy weight of loss bearing down on my chest, either.

  The city’s street racing scene isn’t exactly broadcasted,
but people who know people or who participate themselves know where to go when they want to see a good race.

  Sloan doesn’t even need directions as he takes us to the spot where today’s race will take place, parking and getting out of the car. We all follow, and even though I’m not here to have fun, the atmosphere of it kicks my adrenaline up.

  Scarlett and I have been to races like this plenty of times, and it’s always a thrill to watch the cars and drivers doing their best to outpace each other. There’s that tension of danger in the air, and when it comes down to it, Rory wasn’t wrong. I do like fast things.

  The drivers for the night are milling around, talking shit about each other’s cars and girlfriends and whatever else. It’s usually all in the spirit of the race, but it’s not unheard of for brawls to break out over some trash talk going too far. And that’s before the racers even take to the street.

  I keep going back and forth between being excited to see the race, then remembering I’m not really here for the race, then getting too tense, then having to talk myself into calming down. It’s a stupid cycle, and I half wish I’d invited Scar to come with us, just to have someone else to focus on.

  But no. It’s better that she’s not here, and I have a job to do. I need to get the guys to relax and trust me, to open up more, which means I have to relax first.

  “I brought the good shit,” Rory announces, pulling his bag out from the back seat of the car. He waves a flask around, big enough to have several drinks worth of alcohol in it. “Any takers?”

  Booze will definitely help take the edge off, so I take the flask from him and unscrew the cap, wrinkling my nose when the strong smell of whiskey burns in my nostrils.

  Rory watches me as I take a swig, swallow, and then take another, feeling the burn of the alcohol as it blazes down my throat. He smirks at me, and I roll my eyes and then take one more gulp before passing it back.

  “Someone’s looking to have fun tonight,” he teases, sloshing the liquid around in the flask before having a swig himself.

  “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” I ask, giving him what I hope passes for a flirtatious smile.

  He winks at me, so it probably worked, and then passes the flask to Levi.

  There are a few heats in the race for the night, and I pull myself to sit on the closed trunk of the car, listening to the banter and trash talk before the drivers get into the cars before the first heat.

  That moment when they start revving their engines is always so good, and I sit up straighter, feeling the whiskey starting to go to my head as those engines snarl.

  The cars are flashy, and the two up for the first heat are a dark green with a snake detailed on one side and a bright red one that’s almost blinding.

  Both drivers have a tight grip on their steering wheels as a woman in short shorts and a tank top walks out into the street to stand between them. She holds up a flag teasingly, wiggling it over her chest while they rev their engines higher and higher. And then she drops it, and they’re off, tires squealing as they peel out of their spots and launch into the race.

  The people standing around us are loud as they cheer on their favorites.

  “Let’s go, Jase!”

  “Fuck yeah, Dante. Hell of a start, man!”

  There’s clapping and hooting, and we all watch from the hill we’re on as they tear down the incline and then drift around the corner, heading as fast as they can to the finish where more people wait.

  The heats are pretty short, less than a minute to get from point A to point B, but the excitement makes it stretch on longer. Eventually, the green car edges out the red, crossing the end point with just seconds to spare before the red car comes flying across. They cut their engines and Jase and Dante get out, still talking shit as they accept who won.

  Jase was the victor, by just a hair, and he’ll be moving into the next heat against whoever else makes it through.

  It feels almost normal to be sitting there, watching this the way I used to back in the day. Usually I’d have Scarlett with me, chanting the name of whichever driver we decided to cheer for that night, but even without her here, this scene feels comfortable and familiar.

  Sloan’s mostly keeping to himself, watching us and the race with his usual detached expression, but Rory and Levi have their attention on me.

  “You ever think about racing?” Rory asks, leaning against the car with his arm touching my leg. “If you drive half as well as you fight, you’d be damned good at it, I bet.”

  “I’ve thought about it,” I tell him. “But fancy cars like that are expensive.”

  “That’s why you get someone with money to sponsor you,” he shoots back, grinning. “It probably wouldn’t be hard.”

  “Why? Are you offering?” I arch a brow, giving him a teasing look.

  “Depends. What are you offering in return?” His gaze slides up and down my body. I dressed to catch their attention for this, in jeans that hug my legs and hips tight enough to draw their eyes to my curves, and a shirt that’s more than a little low cut. The way I’m sitting on the trunk of the car has me leaned forward a bit, making it easy to look right at my chest if someone is bold enough.

  Levi seems pretty bold, darting glances over at me and letting them linger. I catch him in the act more than once, and the last time it happens, I let my gaze hold his and then smile slowly.

  He smiles back and steps closer, clearly pleased at the attention.

  “I don’t know,” I say to Rory, keeping up the banter as I answer his question. “I don’t have a lot to give you.”

  He laughs, green eyes gleaming as he looks me over. “We both know that’s not true, Hurricane.”

  His words are clearly flirtatious, and this is usually the point where I would back off or roll my eyes and tell him he wished or whatever. But now I just smile back and shift so more of my thigh is pressed against his arm.

  Levi jiggles the flask in my direction, catching my attention again. “You want any more of this?”

  “Are you going to have some with me?” I ask him.

  “Sure, why not?” He holds my gaze as he takes a long swig and then passes the flask to me, watching just as I do the same, not even wincing at the burn now.

  There’s a nice buzz humming in me, and it makes it so much easier to do this. I’m not worried about coming on too strong, or thinking depressing thoughts about how fucking much I miss my dad. The alcohol is dimming most of my emotions, and I lean into the ones that are left. I lean into Levi and Rory’s flirting, smiling and laughing at their jokes while we watch the next heat get underway.

  Aside from the buzz, the drinking makes me have to pee. This part of town doesn’t have a lot of businesses open right now for me to use one of their bathrooms, but there is a little convenience store up the hill a way, half tucked into an alley.

  “I’ll be back,” I say, hopping down from the car.

  “Where are you going?” Levi asks, watching as I move.

  “Bathroom,” I reply. “Don’t worry, I won’t be gone long.”

  I wink at him and then hurry off, letting the sounds of the cars and the people fade as I head up the hill and turn into the alley, then push my way into the convenience store.

  It’s dingy and fluorescent, like most convenience stores are, I guess. The man behind the counter waves me in the direction of the tiny bathroom, and I start to head that way before the chimes over the door go off and Sloan comes pushing his way in.

  He looks at me, eyes narrowed a bit, and before I can get a word in, he’s dragging me back outside and further around the back to the darker part of the alley, where we can’t really be seen.

  “Jesus. What the hell?” I demand, pulling away from him out of habit.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, and it sounds so accusatory that I roll my eyes right in his face.

  “Right now? Trying to go to the fucking bathroom.”

  “You know what I mean,” he grits out.

  I do know what he
means. The whole time I was out there flirting with Levi and Rory, I could feel his eyes on me, watching, judging. He wouldn’t say anything in front of them. He never does, but clearly he’s not above stalking me to the bathroom to get his answers.

  And I know my role in this exchange. It’s the same as it always is. Sloan pushes, and I push right back, not backing down.

  “So what?” I ask him, folding my arms. “What I do isn’t any of your goddamn business. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that. What’s the problem anyway? Are you jealous?”

  His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t answer the question, glaring down at me instead. “Of course not. I’m just sick of watching you yank my fucking friends around. I knew you’d fall for Rory’s flirting eventually, and I know you and Levi had a thing once—but, Jesus fucking Christ, I didn’t think you’d end up bouncing back and forth between them like that. What, can’t make up your damn mind?”

  I glare right back at him and shrug my shoulders, narrowing my eyes challengingly. “Maybe I don’t want to make up my mind. Maybe I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t like to choose.”

  Sloan clenches his jaw, and I can see the muscle flexing. He looks pissed as shit, but there’s also something that flares in his eyes beneath all that. Something that makes me push harder instead of telling him to fuck off and mind his own business.

  “What? Would you like that?” I ask, stepping just a bit closer, making my voice more of a taunt than anything. “Sharing me?” I laugh huskily, cocking my head. “Ohhh, I get it. You know, I thought you were pissed off when I kissed Rory after the fight. But maybe I was reading it all wrong. Maybe it just turned you the fuck on to see your friend with his tongue down my throat.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Mercy,” Sloan bites out.

  “Why?” I shoot back, narrowing my eyes at him as I take a step closer. I’m actively trying to push all his buttons right now, trying to get a rise out of him, and I don’t even care that it’s probably a stupid move. “I think we’re finally getting somewhere. Finally, I’m starting to understand what makes Sloan Kennedy tick. You like to watch, is that i—”