Page 66 of Cruel Elite (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 3)

The other bikers are all standing casually by their bikes, though their eyes are on me. It doesn’t seem like they are about ready to start a fight.

So, I say what’s on my mind.

“Spoiler alert: maybe this is why the Hell Princes are constantly on the losing side of our encounters. It’s not customary to give your target a forewarning of what your plan is.”

The man smirks. “You have no idea what’s coming for you, kiddo.”

“Maybe not yet, but I’m sure you’ll send a fruit basket with all the details before you pull off your plan.”

At that, the man cracks his knuckles and steps away from his bike.

Again, as though choreographed, the other Hell Princes follow suit.

Shit.

I took it too far.

That’s the problem with fighting these battles alone.

As a unit, the Golden Boys have a nice balance.

By myself, I always seem to push too hard in one way or the other.

This time, I channeled a bit too much Caleb and have found myself in a fight I certainly won’t win.

The bikers are approaching. I’m trying to decide if I can jump back in my car and peel out of here without getting caught or waking my mom up.

But before I can move, sirens blare.

The bikers freeze, their surprised expressions washed in red and blue lights.

The police car pulls into the lane just next to where our little powwow is happening on the shoulder.

He climbs out of his car, his arms resting casually on the hood. “What’s going on here, fellas?”

I make the decision easily.

I could turn these fuckers in for harassing me…

But I’m no snitch.

“Car trouble.” I smile and tip my head towards my car, which…is still running. “These fine gents just assisted me.”

The officer is young, mid-twenties with a thick mustache that shows how hard he’s trying to appear older than he is.

But he isn’t stupid. His brow quirks up.

“I’m a mechanic,” the lead biker says, pointing to a white, rectangular patch on his jacket that looks like it was ripped right off of a mechanic’s uniform.

The name “Tank” has been stitched in the center.

The officer licks his lower lip, his mustache rippling, clearly not buying the story. Finally, he waves his hands.

“Well, if the car is working, clear out. All of you.”

I nod in thanks to him—how thankful, he’ll never really know—and hop back in the car without a backwards glance at the Hell Princes.

Thankfully, my mom is still asleep.

---