Houston doesn’t say anything as he pummels the guy, his knuckles ricocheting off the side of his head until he drops to his knees unable to hold his balance any longer. Houston reaches down to grab the collar of the guy’s shirt, lifting him back to a stand, and stares him down, his lips moving to say something. I can’t hear him, but I see the fear in the faces of the others. I know Houston must have said something threatening. With one thrust of his arm, he pushes him off balance again, then flexes his hand at the one now bleeding from punches and walks back to me.
“Let’s go,” he says, and I pick up my steps to keep up.
We walk in silence until we’re close to home. The blood on his knuckles is leaving a trail of drops on the sidewalk, and when he reaches into his pocket for his keys not thinking, he winces.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath, reaching around with his other arm instead, protecting his hurt hand.
“Yeah, well that’s what you get,” I say, shaking my head, folding my arms and waiting for him to unlock the door for me, reminding me that I still need a key of my own.
Houston stops abruptly, leaning away from the door and letting the screen slam to a close. “Excuse me?” he asks.
“When you go all Neanderthal for no reason, then I’m not going to feel bad for you when you’re hurt,” I say, glancing at his eyes, then back down at the lock on the door. I jerk my head toward it, willing him to hurry up.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, staring at me and waiting for my response. I shrug my shoulders, lifting my brow once.
No, I’m not kidding Houston. I. Don’t. Need. Rescuing.
“Un-fucking believable,” he mutters, finally unlocking the door. If only he just did that in the first place. I step inside quickly, and I hear the door slam behind us. I don’t stop, instead continuing to the steps, hearing the sound of his keys being tossed on the table.
“Are you for real with this shit?” he asks as I reach the top step. I steady myself, my hand on the banister, and I turn to face him.
“If you could leave the lease paperwork on the table for me, along with a key, I’ll sign it in the morning and leave your rent check,” I say, before turning and walking into my room. With the door closed, I drop my purse to the ground and move to my hard-as-a-board bed, sitting down, then falling to my back. I close my eyes, bringing my palms to my face, and in the quiet of the house, I hear the sounds of moans taunting me from my imagination.
Chapter 9
Houston
My knuckles are already showing the bruise. I haven’t hit someone that hard in a long time. The fights I’d had with Carson, Paige’s ex whatever he was, weren’t as intense as what happened yesterday walking Paige home. When I heard that guy taunting her—making those sounds, being disrespectful—something entirely different came over me, and when I swung at his face, I swung hard.
It felt good. Though I felt a little…embarrassed, I guess? When Paige called me out on it, I didn’t see that coming. Not that I thought it through much before I turned and went all ape-fist. But I did sort of expect her to be grateful. At least a thank you. Certainly not the cold-ass shoulder I ended up with.
I thought about just leaving when we got home, going to the carnival—saying fuck it. But I didn’t want to leave her alone. Not that she came out of her room a single time. I finally gave up on waiting her out when Leah and my mom came home.
Paige must have left for class early this morning, because as promised, she left a check along with the signed lease agreement in the middle of the counter, a sticky note on the check that read I DON’T KNOW YOUR STUPID LAST NAME, SO FILL IT IN FOR ME. I’m glad I found this before my mom. I don’t think she’d quite appreciate Paige’s bite, not like I do.
God, why do I?
I wrote in our stupid last name, then added a note to the bottom of her sticky and left it on her bedroom door.
ORR. MY STUPID LAST NAME’S ORR.
PRACTICE WRITING IT ON THE THANK YOU NOTE
I DESERVE FOR DECKING THAT ASSHOLE.
I went back and pulled it off her door a few minutes ago though, because I don’t want my mom seeing that, either. Maybe I don’t want Paige to read it. Writing it was enough. I felt better—for a minute. I tore it into small pieces and put it in the trash when I got back downstairs, deciding to be an adult and just tell her my last name instead of passing notes like grade school.
“Morning, sweetheart! Leah up and ready?” My mom startles me from my daydream at the kitchen table. Joyce Orr is a morning person. She’s really an every-time person—cheer and glee and…cheer…seeps from her pores, hitting people in all directions, no matter how much they aren’t morning people.