Page 3 of Beautiful Defiance

3

SEVEN

My goddamn truck doesn’t start, and I have a party to prep for. I kick the tire, then regret taking out my anger on the old girl. I bought the red Chevy Silverado truck with money earned from doing odd jobs in the nearby town of McMillan.

Sure, my old man is loaded, but there’s satisfaction in hard work and making my way in life without my dad’s handed-down wealth.

“Hey, man, we gotta move our asses.” Trace clamps his meaty paw on my shoulder and squeezes. Malice, the fucker, plows into me from behind, and I stumble toward his damn sportscar.

“We ain’t gonna all fit in your pansy ass GT-R, bro.” I shove my elbow in his gut. He grunts. “And why you gotta drive around in a one-hundred-thousand-dollar deathtrap? We live out in the boondocks. Who you trying to impress?”

He doesn’t answer. Malice marches past me, and that’s how I know I’ve hit a sensitive nerve. I hurry after him. It’s not in me to pass up the chance of ribbing on him.

I shoot my truck a parting glance over my shoulder, making sure the old girl will be okay. She’s one of a few vehicles left in the school’s back parking lot.

Tomorrow, I’ll hitch a ride with Trace. After practice, I’ll figure out what the deal is with her. Maybe this time around, she’s finally bit the dust. I shrug my backpack higher on my shoulder and cram my hands inside my pockets. It’s my own damn fault for not taking better care of her. But with the shit that’s been going on with my parents—the fighting, the accusations—I needed to do something with the anger swirling inside me.

That something is working out like crazy and partying. Yeah, lots and lots of partying since school started. My parents’ arguments have spilled over from summer into the school year, and the uncertainty of where I’ll be months from now is fucking with my A-game on and off the field.

“Dude, don’t tell me you’re trying to impress Riley Lee? She ain’t even here.”

Riley worked for Malice’s family before she moved to Dumas for school.

Malice yanks open the door, flips forward the front seat, and throws his thumb at the back seat. I shake my head.

“I’m riding shotgun.”

“No go. You brought up Riley, and that earns you a spot sitting with your knees to your heartless chest.”

I put my palms up. “You need to forget her. One, she’ll graduate from college the same year we finish high school. Two, she was Midnight’s girl first, and when your cousin digs his claws into a girl, he doesn’t let her go. Not someone as different as Riley.”

Different isn’t the best word to describe Riley Lee. But I can’t well accuse the girl Malice has a hard-on for as being untrustworthy and a troublemaker of the worst kind.

Riley is one of those girls a guy wants to kiss senseless and ream out at the same time for her defiance and recklessness. Her sister, Rue, is cut from the same cloth, except Rue’s defiance and recklessness are on the down low, quiet and lethal.

“Forget her. There are other girls more than willing to fuck with your head. Bonus? They’ll let you wet your dick too.”

I’m not kidding either. The girls go gaga for Malice, with his unpredictable moods and hooded I-couldn’t-give-a-flying-fuck eyes.

The guy’s always angry. I don’t get why. Dude’s loaded, has his pick of girls, and lives in his own place on his parents’ property.

“Let the poor girl go. Otherwise, Midnight will kick your ass to kingdom come for entertaining the idea of going after his woman.”

Thank fuck he comes to his senses, mumbling something to the effect of, “Yeah, can’t have discord in the family.”

Family is everything to Malice. Same goes for me. I squeeze into the back seat, and clamping my hands on my boys’ shoulders, I give them the four-one-one on the girls coming to the party tonight.

“Super fly. Super fine. The best of the best for us, bros. There’ll be no defiance. No rebellion. The girls will fall in line and do whatever the fuck we want them to.”

Trace and Malice smile big. Predictable and obedience off the field means more mayhem on the football field. It’s what we’re known for. For shitting on our opponents to the point the game is lopsided with how high into the stratosphere the score is.

I throw. Malice has my back. Trace catches my throws and runs the ball into the endzone. We pound our opponents into submission because you see, I am the king of the game, and this king will not be unseated from his throne.

No one will overthrow my kingdom, including the five-foot-five straight-as-a-board pissed-off new girl with her defiance.

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