Page 6 of The Players

What if Easton had a gun? I knew Lowell carried but a gunfight was the last thing we needed. What if Easton had an army of thugs ready to beat the shit out of us? My hand strayed to the cell phone in my jacket pocket. I would call 911. I didn’t care if the boys might get upset. I would not lose any of them.

The car cut into the parking lot throwing up gravel as it raced toward us. It had to be Easton. The way they were driving, like the devil was chasing them, could only mean one person sat behind the wheel.

“He’s coming in too fast,” Mills said, pulling me closer to him.

“Fucker needs to slow down,” Lowell said, hedging back with his arms out as if he could protect me from a moving vehicle.

Would he hit us?Would he run us all over?!I got ready to jump into the bushes.

At the last second, the car slammed on its brakes, fishtailing a little. Gravel pelted us. I ducked, covering my face as pebbles pinged off our clothes and skin. Hands on my biceps pulled me out of the way as a chorus of raised voices blended into one long stream of cuss-word-infused shouts.

“—you asshole—”

“What do you think you are—?”

“When I get my hands on you—”

I blinked up, stepping out of the shadows to see what the hell was happening.

The boys were cutting toward the car, their shadows stretching long as the headlights pinned them. Meanwhile, two figures stepped out of the car and stood next to it, looking nonplussed.

“Cut the shit and the lights,” Mills said, his hand held out to block the glare.

Thankfully, the headlights died. We all blinked for a moment, our eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness.

When I could see again, I glanced at the two figures beside the Bentley they’d been recklessly driving. It looked like someone’s father’s car, far too grand and flashy without the normal douchebag factor of the cars Easton drove. And the figure standing beside it didn’t appear to be Easton, either. He was shorter, stockier with longer hair, a golden blond that stopped just below his ears.

The person on the other side of the car wasn’t Easton either. She was female, long and lanky with blond hair like the driver. They looked like brother and sister.

“Who the hell are you?” Lowell growled, focusing the brunt of his anger on the male.

He smirked, seemingly unafraid of Lowell’s posturing. They both had a haughty indifference that had to be well-honed because my boys looked menacing, and it was three to two, or rather three to one since one of them was female. Neither seemed to care.

“I’m Spencer,” the male said, “And this is Savannah. We’re here representing Easton. He sent us with a message.”

“His lackeys,” Hector said with a nasty twist of his mouth. “Perfect. Too cowardly to face us himself.”

Savannah walked toward Hector, taking long precise strides like she were on a runway instead of a dusty dirt parking lot. “Easton isn’t scared of you, boo. He could crush you like a bug.” She ran her finger up Hector’s shoulder before digging her nail into his neck.

He gripped her hand and yanked it away, but that was all he could do. Everyone knew you couldn’t hit a girl.

(But you could bury them alive.)

“What do you want?” Mills said, sounding frustrated. “Why drag us out here? Waste our fucking time?”

Savannah giggled like a schoolgirl. “Easton doesn’t care about your time, silly. He just wants you to remember to whom you belong. He has sent all three of you” —she pointed to each of them in turn— “text messages reminding you exactly what he knows. He figures when you read them, you’ll reconsider your allegiances.”

The boys went quiet. I could tell they were dying to reach into their pockets and pull out their phones but knew that would seem weak in front of these two psychopaths.

“As for you,” Savannah said, angling toward me. Her boot heels clacked on the gravel as she maneuvered toward me before stopping right in front of me.

She was gorgeous, very blond, and very busty. She wore designer clothes and fancy high-heeled boots. Even her perfume smelled expensive.

And she was a stone-cold bitch as far as I was concerned.

“What do you want?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips. “What can Easton do to me that he hasn’t already done?”

She let one corner of her lipsticked mouth curl up. “Oh, little orphan. You will just have to wait and see.” She reached out. I thought she would hit me. Instead, she booped me on the nose, even making the sound, which, frankly, was more unnerving than being slapped.

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