Page 66 of Castaway Whirlwind
Trace’s friends sense the trouble brewing as well. Though technically they’re Max’s friends, too, it’s plain to see they’ve all sided with Trace, standing in formation behind him like soldiers, keeping a close watch.
We all breathe a sigh of relief when the boys head inside a minute later, returning with several more buckets of beer. The tension breaks when Trace hands a cold bottle to Max, and theycheersbefore chugging them, egged on by the other boys who follow suit, moving on to talking about an upcoming car and truck show.
Cora jumps into the conversation by pointing at Trace’s freshly rewrapped teal truck and asking, “Is that one yours?”
Trace brightens. “Yup. That’s my baby.”
“It’s gorgeous. It got a name?” she asks, now swinging her feet.
Trace shyly scuffs his boot on the patio after hooking his thumbs behind his oversized silver belt buckle. “Little T.”
Max tenses and sets his beer down when Cora giggles and asks, “Does that mean you’re Big T?”
“Crap,” Goldie mutters off to the side.
“Here we go,” Layla says, slinging back the rest of her drink before I slide her off my lap toward Elliott.
Trace licks his bottom lip with a smirk and grips his crotch over his jeans. “Sure does, Little Mama.”
It happens in quick succession—Wyatt, Davis, Paul, and I heave our bulks off our seats, lunging for Max while Elliott, unsurprisingly, plucks Cora off the table and Layla from behind with his arms around their waists, setting them on their feet beside the rest of the girls. I try to grab Max’s arms to hold him back since I’m closest, but he’s a slippery fool, already launching himself at Trace, giving Trace a punch to the gut followed by an uppercut that snaps Trace’s head back.
Troublewas an understatement. It’s absolute melee, drinks and fists and expletives flying as Trace’s buddies go for Max’s throat while we men try to separate the boys that only seem to multiply as the crowd loses their collective minds, like they were waiting for the excuse to take out some mindless aggression.
“Shit, sorry boss! Don’t fire me!” Trace squeals when he misses Max’s face and nails me in the jaw instead.
Two shots ring out, and the fight is over in a blink of an eye, Goldie having fired off several bullets toward the trees bordering the field, then swinging to aim the handgun shemust have hidden somewhere on her person into the crowd, never even needing to say a word.
Davis flashes a guilty wince at his wife and lets go of Timothy, whom he had in a headlock, and forces a shake of their hands. “No hard feelings, bud.”
“None taken. See you Monday,” Timothy says with a grin.
The boys dust off their jeans and slap the grit off their hats while Max gasps for breath after taking more than a few punches to his stomach, two of which came from Paul. And instead of Cora going to her hopefully-now-ex-boyfriend, she stands before Trace, sliding her hand over his shaved-clean cheek to observe his rapidly swelling eyes. “Are you ok, Big T?”
Trace hooks an arm around her back, tipping his head into her palm. “Nothing but a scratch, Little Mama. I’ll be fine. You know,” he says slowly, sliding his hand up her back to play with the small hairs at the nape of her neck, “I’ve always wanted a princess in my passenger seat.”
“Really?” Cora arches into him with stars in her eyes, swept off her feet by the whirlwind, too.
“Got room in the back for at least three car seats,” he says in what I’m sure he thinks is a seductive tone. “I always wanted to be a young dad.”
I roll my eyes and swing my gaze around with sirens starting up in the far distance. “Where’s Layla?” My voice rises several octaves as I start shoving people aside, having broken my promise of not letting her out of my sight. “Where is Layla?”
Violet cups a hand around her mouth to shout, “Russell! There!”
I follow her pointed finger, my stomach bottoming out when a flash of skin winks out of the light into the dark woods, and then I’m running.
Chapter 21
Layla
I thwack branches out of my way until I get far enough from the crowd to scream at the inky blue sky without anyone hearing me, “Fuck you! Fuck you, you stupid piece of shit asshole! You’re just like him! I hate you! I hate all of you!”
“Darlin’?”
I whirl around at Russell’s soft, hesitant voice, hardly able to make out his hands held up in front of him as he approaches, ducking beneath and swerving around the branches much more carefully than I had.
“I hate them!” I scream shrilly, grinding a boot in the dirt as if I could grind them all to dust beneath my heel, every muscle rigid, sweat pouring down my back beneath my dress.
“Who?”
