Page 42 of Catching Sparks

“What are you doing here, Garrison?”

And why does your touch on my arms make my heart stutter when it should be doing anything but?

Seeming to read those thoughts at the same time I think them, he lets me go and straightens his posture.

“What am I doing?” he asks incredulously. “What did he do to earn that punch?”

“Nothing!” the guy mutters, his voice nasally from the pinch of his fingers on his nose.

Garrison shifts those cold eyes away from me and onto him instead. The guy quivers beneath the weight of that stare, suddenly not as brave as he was in front of me. I get a sick sense of satisfaction from that, even while it annoys me that it took Garrison’s presence to make him squirm the way he deserves.

“What did you say to her?” Garrison demands, the deep, angry sound of his voice making my nipples hard.

Not the place, Poppy. It’s only been three days.

“They’re just a bunch of pigs,” Caleb says from behind us, calm enough to try and soothe the situation over. “Brock doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”

“I’d rather be a pig than a rat,” Brock snaps, his attention locked on my brother’s approaching form.

“I’d watch your mouth around my sister unless you want missing teeth next,” Darren warns him.

Brock glares daggers at me. “This is ridiculous. I could press charges.”

I grin wickedly. “Try it. I’ve always wanted to spend a night in a jail cell.”

Maybe if I’m bad enough, Garrison will bail me out, and I can pay him back by letting him spank me silly.

The man taking up too much space in my brain right now pulls his shoulders back and moves a step closer to Brock. My brother shifts his stance, as if he’s uncomfortable not being the one to intimidate the guy who’s upset me, and narrows eyes brimming with suspicion on Garrison. My stomach swirls at that look.

I brave a glance behind me and find Johnny lingering by the old pickup truck I taught Garrison how to drive. He waves at me, fidgeting on the sidewalk. With a thumbs-up, I make him smile before turning back around.

“You’re not going to press charges because I’ll have your statement trashed before it ever lands on a desk. Forget this happened so I won’t have a reason to begin rooting through every little thing you’ve ever done in your life. And you’ve done quite a few things you wish you hadn’t, right?” Garrison asks, his deep voice dagger sharp yet soft in a terrifying way.

“I’m sure he’s already forgotten about this,” Caleb answers for Brock.

Garrison doesn’t back away yet, though. “I’m right, aren’t I, Brock?”

“Just back the fuck away from me and I’ll let it go. Shit, this was all too much,” he blubbers, the blood flow from his nose staunched.

I smirk at him, my head tilting slightly. “Keep your eyes to yourself and your lips zipped and we won’t have another problem. Make sure you give the same advice to the others. I’d hate to damage my knuckles.”

My brother and Caleb both step away from the three volunteers, but I wait until Garrison faces me, the ice melting bit by bit in his gaze, before following after them. I keep my pace slow, not bothering to give Caleb another second of my time as he lingers at the station. I fall into step with Garrison.

“What did he say about you?” he asks lowly, keeping a small distance between us on the sidewalk.

“I’m not sure what he said, exactly. Something regarding my dancing and the clothes I wear while I do it. I never asked for specifics. Apparently, I should be hanging curtains to keep them from gawking in the window. Maybe I overreacted.”

“You should have punched him lower” is all he says.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re not going to chastise me for it? Say I should have let it go?”

“Is that so surprising? What right do I have to chastise you for standing up for yourself?”

I open my mouth and then close it back up. Uncertainty pricks at me. “You don’t have the right, but . . .”

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