“Where the fuck did you get this?” Derrick demands, getting up in Creed’s face. Creed is a few inches shorter, and not quite as wide as Derrick, but to be fair, Derrick is built like a pickup truck, and he’s got a bit of a belly. If it came down to a fistfight, it’d be a pretty even match.
“You don’t have to watch this, you know,” Zack says, making me jump when his voice sounds from beside me. I glance over, but his dark gaze is focused solely on Creed and Derrick. “If you want me to take you back to campus, I can do that.”
“No, I’m … I’m fine.” I cross my arms over my chest to ward off the late evening chill, and find that I’m short of breath, an anxious energy taking over the crowd that’s quickly becoming infectious.
“I have plenty more where that came from, if you’d like to see,” Creed says, lifting his phone again. Derrick snatches it from his hand, chucks it onto the floor, and crushes the screen with his sneaker before he gets back in Creed’s face again.
“You’re going to regret that shit,” he snarls, but Creed doesn’t seem concerned, not in the least.
“Mm, I don’t think so.” He tucks his fingers into the pockets of his red slacks, and lifts his chin. “Somehow, I’m pretty sure it’s you that’s going to regret this moment for years to come.” His face hardens up, mouth a thin slash of ice, and then he smiles. I have to say, between Tristan and Creed … well, if I saw either of them in a dark alley, I’d run like hell. “You’re out of the Infinity Club.”
“You can’t make that decision!” Derrick roars, but Creed just shakes his head.
“But I can, and I did, so get in your car and fuck all the way off.” Derrick launches himself at Creed, but Miranda’s twin is a lot craftier than he looks. He sidesteps the attack, letting Derrick stumble, and then prepares himself for the big man to swing around. When Derrick throws a punch, Creed is there to catch it. He uses Derrick’s own weight and momentum against him, ducking low and then launching the other man into the air with his back.
Derrick flips over the side of the deck and lands in the bushes with a curse, Creed standing over him, limned in porchlight.
“Myron, get the gun,” Creed says, and a dark-haired boy in the crowd nods before moving off. Gun? What gun? Oh my god, he isn’t going to shoot him, is he? My throat gets tight, and my hands curl into fists. There’s no way in hell I’m going to stand here and watch some kid—no matter how big an asshole he is—get shot.
But when Myron comes back, he’s got a tattoo machine in his hand, a box of gloves under his arm, and a small plastic bin with bandages and other various first-aid supplies in it.
“Remove his mark,” Creed says, moving away from the edge of the deck as the crowd ripples, and the whispers start up. On his way back inside, those blue eyes land on mine and stick there. Something strange travels through me, but I don’t know how to identify it, so I ignore it. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. “Come upstairs with me,” he says, and my eyes widen to marbles. Come upstairs?! Is this asshole propositioning me? “We’re going to start a game.”
The crowd mumbles appreciatively, but then Derrick is back up and coming for Creed again.
“You’re just as much of a bitch as your whore sister,” he growls, spittle and blood from his fall flecking his lips. “Next time I get a hold of her, it’ll be more than just a few pictures I’ll be taking.”
Creed turns around oh-so slowly, but he doesn’t get a chance to step in before Tristan’s there, just inches from Derrick’s face.
“You’re finished with the Club, Derrick.” Tristan’s blade gray eyes narrow, and I almost—almost—feel sorry for Derrick. Being on the receiving end of that stare is not a pleasant experience. “Your father’s already being investigated by the FBI for money laundering.” Tristan smiles like a shark, all teeth and primal, driving hunger.
“You …” Derrick stutters, eyes widening. “You set this up.”
One of those perfectly arched dark brows goes up, and Tristan’s smile morphs into a sneer.
“You think I forced your father to divert the interest from his clients’ accounts into a trust in the Cayman Islands? Mm, that’s a little beyond my paygrade I’m afraid. Unfortunately for you, Derrick, you’re about to be friendless, moneyless, and outcast, and I didn’t have to do a thing.”
Myron steps forward, a pair of black latex gloves on his hands, and nods toward a chair that’s been placed in the center of the deck.
