Page 3 of Fight Or Flight

I’ve experienced it once before when I followed Colton King behind the bleachers freshman year. He gave me my first kiss and when I told my mom about it, she called the feeling butterflies and said I’d get them a lot through my teenage years. I wish she would’ve warned me that a whole swarm of them would take flight when my eyes locked with the blue-eyed boy who smashed our car, but psychic powers are not one of my mom’s many talents.

“No one is getting fit for cement shoes because no one is going to find out, shithead,” he grinds out, pinning his brother with a glare. “Do I need to remind you snitches get stitches?”

The passenger chuckles.

“Bro, the only one getting stitches here is you. You ruined this lady’s car,” he retorts, waving a hand at my mother’s bumper that’s conveniently sitting on the pavement like a casualty of war.

Clearing her throat, my mother makes her presence known and both boys stare at her.

“Shit,” the driver hisses, raking his fingers roughly through his hair again. “I’m sorry lady, I didn’t even ask… are you okay?”

My eyes follow him as he starts for her. She waves him off, causing him to pause. Then she gives him a weak smile and stares at him as though she’s seen him before and is trying to place him. It’s an awkward moment and I think she realizes that because she suddenly shakes her head and brings her eyes back to me.

“We’re fine. Isn’t that right, Brooklyn?”

The driver’s eyes slice to me, and I feel my cheeks heat in an instant.

“Brooklyn, huh?” the younger boy says. “Like the borough?”

Feeling as if they’re both examining me, I bite my lip and look away.

“Zip it, Rob,” the driver growls. Foolishly, I let my gaze wander back to him and I find his eyes are still firmly pinned to me.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks me.

I nod, or at least I think I do. I’m not sure what the hell is going on with my body, much less my face, which in case you were wondering, feels like it’s on fire.

He flashes me a lopsided grin.

“Great, well, if everyone’s okay, we’re going to be on our way,” the driver says, turning to my mom. “Nice meeting you, take care!”

“My bumper is on the street,” mom points out.

He pulls his brows together and eyes the bumper curiously—as if he doesn’t know how it got there.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, crossing his arms against his chest. I wait for him to elaborate on that hmm, but instead, he lifts his hand and strokes his chin thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I can’t believe it either,” he replies, as if he’s not to blame. Then he snaps his fingers. “Oh, hey, I’ve got an idea. Our Uncle Pipe coincidentally has a garage in Brooklyn…” His voice trails as he pauses. Turning those baby blues to me, he smirks, and I try to decide when I became a stereotypical teenage girl who swoons over a goofy boy with a killer smile. It’s lame and I hate it.

“You can’t be serious,” Rob scoffs. “How’s she going to get there? Half her car is on the ground, the other half is attached to Uncle Anthony’s, and let’s not forget what Uncle Pipe is going to do when he finds out you were driving.”

The smile vanishes from the blue-eyed boy’s face as he glares at his brother.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

“Don’t get all pissy with me, tough guy. You’re the one who had to be a big shot and steal the keys to Uncle Gangster’s car when you don’t even have a license.”

“I’m going to tell him you called him Uncle Gangster,” he fires back.

Rob pushes his glasses up his nose with his index finger before holding up his hands in mock surrender.

“Oh, now you got me shaking in my boots.”

“Boys!”

The stern tone of my mom’s voice causes me to divert my attention back to her and I watch as she moves to stand between the two brothers.

“Why don’t we leave all the uncles out of it and call your parents?” she suggests, her tone hopeful.

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