Her eyes darted from me to him. “Help.” A hoarse whisper. “Please.”

His face was impassive, and he shifted back, giving us some space. He crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s barely touching you. Stop acting.”

“Cross!” Her voice sounded more normal there.

“Why the fuck are you talking to me?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re going to let her touch me like this?”

“Yeah.” Jordan spoke this time, leaning on his elbow against the truck. His eyebrows wiggled. “You chicks need to learn that crews don’t care about gender. Don’t matter if the person has a dick or a vagina. Crew is crew.” His gaze skirted to me. “She’s my crew.”

“Mine too.”

Tabatha’s eyes moved to Cross.

She gulped, then came back to look at me.

I removed my hand and stepped back. “I warned you earlier,” I told her softly. “Fuck with me one more time, and you’ll learn why I’m crew and you’re not.”

She laughed harshly. “What are you going to do—”

It wasn’t my hand this time, it was Jordan’s. He shifted so his hand was on the vehicle, but way too close to her. His finger pressed against her neck. His whole stance was meant for intimidation.

“Crew is crew. Our enemies are shared. Why don’t you fucking get that?” Jordan loomed over her, twice her weight and probably three times her strength. No guy had ever dared treat her this way.

He didn’t need to say anything else. Her eyes darted around the scene once more, and she gave the tiniest of nods. She’d gotten the message.

Jordan stepped back and flashed her a bright smile. “Hope this doesn’t affect my chance of getting in your pants this weekend, but I’m glad you’re sorted. Don’t fuck with one of mine again.” He began walking backward toward the house.

Taz remained frozen in place behind us, and she scooted to the side as he went past.

He glanced at me. “I know you had to.”

Yeah. He’d asked me to be nice. “She insulted me.”

“I know.” There was no judgment in his eyes, just acceptance. With a wink, he opened the door and went inside.

“Cro—”

He cut her off. “Go inside, Taz.”

Her mouth closed, but she didn’t go.

“Go inside,” he said again.

She bit the inside of her cheek, but did as he’d asked. Her shoulders hunched over as she went. Once the door closed behind her, Cross nodded to me. My turn now.

I stepped forward again, and Tabatha flinched, her upper back hitting the truck. She bounced off, steadying herself.

“You want to fuck him.” I gestured to Cross.

Some of her color came back, pooling in her cheeks.

“And another of my crew members wants to fuck you.” I folded my arms. I wasn’t going to put hands on her again. “To say things are a little complicated is an understatement.” I shook my head. “I have a feeling Taz has been telling you stories of how nice and kind I am, right?”

She gulped, but lifted her head. Just a bit.

“So she’s talking to you and making me look like a pretty princess, right? And somewhere along the line, you forgot your first instinct about me—you forgot to stay the fuck away. You started remembering how much you like Cross. You started remembering how great a friend he is to me, and you heard all these stories from Taz about how close he and I are. But we can’t be together, right? Because we’re crew. So you started envisioning yourself with him. Am I getting this right?”

She looked down. “Yeah,” she said.

I’d heard enough.

“My ‘guys’ aren’t here to save the day,” I told her. “My crew is—which includes me. I’m not just the girl in their guy group. I’m one of them. They bleed, I bleed. I am here to save the day, just like they are. You get it? You’re talking to me like I’m one of you. Like I’m a fucking pretty princess who can’t fight her own fight. I’m not. I’m crew. Are you following me?”

She refused to meet my eyes.

“I don’t get what you intended just now,” I told her. “Did you just forget how things work?”

Another wait. It wasn’t as long this time.

“I forgot how things work.”

Did I need to refresh her again?

Cross did it for me. “Don’t fuck with us.”

Her head had been so high in the beginning. Now she looked like we’d taken her favorite toy away. The transformation was remarkable. She could go cry to someone, say I’d put my hands on her. I had. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I knew what we’d done was bad.

We did it anyway.

The door opened behind us, and Jordan called, “We need your help with Race.”

Cross and I moved at the same time, going for the house.

“They’re hurting him?” Cross yelled.

“No.” Jordan pushed the door wide for us. “It’s the other way around. He’s hurting them. It’s all-out war out there.”

We ran through the house and out onto the front lawn. He wasn’t kidding.

The back half of the crowd was the jocks and their friends. The other half, their backs to the streets, was the Ryerson crew. I stopped to count them. Our crew went everywhere together, but Ryerson’s crew was big—over thirty the last I knew—so they didn’t always need everyone at a fight.

Tonight, however, I counted just under thirty, including the four on the ground.

Race stood in the middle of everything, throwing the crew members around. He wasn’t letting them pin him down. That was his only saving grace. Once that happened, it would’ve been over. He was grabbing one and twisting his body around, evading and dodging, then hitting. It helped that the ones trying to grab him were a few of their older members, which was wrong in a whole other level. The high school guys should’ve waded in, but I saw some of them in the back.

Wait a minute.

They weren’t just in the back. They were literally standing back, their hands in pockets, a few fisted at their sides, or their arms crossed over their chest.

They weren’t okay with what they were doing.

They were actively stating it too, at least in crew language.

Alex, whether he realized it or not, was fucked. It was a matter of time.

Some of the jocks looked like they wanted in on the fight. A few waded in, but they pulled back if a Ryerson got too close. One threw a cup of something at them. It bounced off a Ryerson crew member like a fly.

Jordan moved through the crowd and gave the guy a look. “Nice,” he sneered. “Real tough of you.”

At the sound of his voice, everything changed.

The Ryersons all looked up, and the three surrounding Race fell back a couple feet. All eyes went to Jordan, then the rest of us. When the jocks realized Jordan was there, they moved aside. A path opened, and as one, we walked to stand in the center of it all.

Race’s shirt had been torn off. Blood caked one side of him, and his chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes were wild, panicked, and as he realized no one was advancing, he swung around. He almost raised a hand to Jordan, but caught himself.

His gaze jumped to me.

Alex moved forward, half his face bruised and his lip swollen. He wiped a hand over his face, smearing blood. He didn’t notice, or he didn’t care.

“What are you doing here?” he snarled at us. “He’s not your crew.”

Jordan looked to Cross, who stepped forward. “This is his house.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Race isn’t your crew.”

Cross went rigid, then relaxed into a fighting stance. He was ready, and Alex knew all the signs. “This is my house.”

“So what?” Alex demanded. “You want us to move to the street?” He pointed to some of his crew. They started for his cousin, who jumped back. “We can do that. Believe me.”

One reached for Race, who batted his arm away. He jogged backward, his arms up, ready to swing.

“What are you doing, Alex?” I’d had enough.

Alex shook his head. “Fuck, Bren. Really?”

“You’re at Cross’ house.” I held his gaze. “If we singled someone out at your house?” I paused a beat. “If we didn’t clear it with you first? It’s about respect, Alex. You’re not showing it.”