Hartley is quick to call me out. “No, you didn’t. Nothing you do is for anyone else. It’s for you, always.” She scowls at me. “Do you get off on me watching, maybe?”

“No. That’s stupid.”

“That’s stupid?” Her voice rises another octave. “You and these idiots—”

“Hey!” someone protests, and that’s when I realize we’ve got an audience.

“—come out here at night and spend hundreds of dollars to play some idiotic version of Fight Club. If that’s not stupid, I don’t know what is.”

“Then leave, sweetheart!” one of the guys in Muscle Man Mike’s crew calls out irritably.

“Yeah! Quit shrieking like a banshee and get lost!”

“Royal, muzzle your bitch!”

I whirl around, seeking the moron who threw out that last remark. The moment he sees my expression, he takes several nervous steps backward.

“You,” I tell him, jabbing my finger in the air. “You’ll fucking pay for that comment.”

He takes another step back.

“What, you’re gonna hit him, too?” Hartley says in disgust. “Is that how you solve your problems, Easton? With violence?”

“I’m not gonna let some brainless motormouth run you down.”

“I don’t care. He can say all the bad things he wants about me. I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.”

“Then you’re fighting for yourself, not for me. I want to leave,” she says stiffly. “And I want to leave now. So here’s how it’s going to be: you’re either going to put your shirt back on”—she reaches behind her, and then she’s slapping my T-shirt against my bare pecs—“and take me home. Or”—she holds up her cell phone—“I’m going to call the police and get this little party broken up.”

“Narc!”

“Yo, bitch, ever heard the phrase ‘snitches get stitches’?”

“Your girlfriend sucks, Royal.”

Both Hartley and I ignore the shit flying in our direction. We stare each other down. Her eyes are on fire, a dark, stormy gray that sends a chill up my spine. She’s furious with me.

I screwed up, I guess. But I honestly didn’t think a few bareknuckle matches would get her this upset. Ella was kind of squeamish when she came along with us, but I think she actually liked seeing Reed go all animalistic on her.

“Easton,” Hartley says, low and threatening.

I find myself swallowing hard. “Yeah?”

“Take. Me. Home.” She gives me a look so cold it freezes the sweat on my bare chest. “Now.”

Chapter 12

I’m really, really, really sorry. 3 reallys! That’s how u know I mean it

After I send the text, I lie in bed for a good thirty minutes staring at my phone and willing Hartley to respond. She doesn’t. Just like she hadn’t responded to any of the other messages I’d sent between nine thirty and noon today. A total of eight unanswered texts fill our chat history.

There’s a weird weight in my chest that won’t go away. I feel bad, I guess. The look on Hartley’s face at the fights? That wounded look? I can’t seem to erase it from my head. Worse, I don’t know what to do to fix it. She didn’t say a single word on the drive home from the docks last night, not until we reached her apartment. When I tried to get out of the truck to walk her to her door, she glared at me and said, “How does walking me upstairs benefit Easton Royal? It doesn’t. So don’t do it.” Then she jumped out of the pickup and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

It bugs me that she thinks I’m a selfish prick.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I pick up my phone and type another message.

Plz, H, just talk 2 me. otherwise I’m coming over 2 apologize in person

I don’t know if it’s the threat that does it or if she suddenly decided she’s in the mood to answer. Either way, I get results—I see the three gray dots indicating she’s typing something.

Thank fuck.

Don’t you dare come over, Easton

I will if u don’t stop ignoring me. I don’t like it

Ya? Well, I don’t like getting dragged to some illegal fight club and then being told I’m uptight

Guilt arrows into me. And my stomach feels queasy, but that might be thanks to the bottle of tequila I sucked down when I got home after dropping off Hartley. Arguments like that almost always send me right to the liquor cabinet.

How many more times do I need 2 say im sry in order 4 u to forgive me?

No response.

Frustrated, I sit up in bed and bang my head against my padded headrest a few times. Then I type a follow-up.

Bcuz I AM sorry, Hartley. I feel like a shit for taking u there, and then trying 2 force u 2 stay when u asked 2 go home. U have every right 2 be mad at me

More silence.

What do u want from me?

Realness, is the reply I finally get.

Realness? What the fuck is that? I drag a hand across my jaw as I stare at the phone. I am sorry. That’s as real as it gets. The fact that I even feel regret is a new thing for me. Why can’t she see that?

My fingers hover over the screen. What do I say? What will be convincing?

Im as real as they come bby

I read it over once more before I send it. And then read it again. On the third pass, it occurs to me that it’s the worst response in the history of mankind. I’m not good at this texting thing. If she were here in person, she’d be able to see how sorry I really am.

Come over, u can see im serious

Now you are

What the hell does that mean? She’s like an advanced flight formula, and, unfortunately, there’s no cheat sheet or app to help me out.

Cant be srs all the time. Wld be boring

Sometimes boring is good. It’s in the quiet you hear the heart beat

Is she quoting song lyrics? I don’t even know with this girl anymore.

I tap my fingers against the sides of the phone, trying to come up with the best one-liner I can. All the usual suspects aren’t going to work, so…

Be real, she says. The reason I can’t think of anything good to write is because those lines are hollow. Be real. I let my fingers tap against the screen.

I don’t want 2 lose your friendship. I like u

As I press send, I realize that this might be the first time I’ve ever actually said that to a girl.

I like you

I’ve said I want you. I think you’re sexy, hot, smoking, banging. I’ve complimented girls. I’ve encouraged them. I’ve made more than a few squeal with happiness, but I don’t know that I’ve ever genuinely liked one.

But I like Hartley.

I stare at the screen and will her to respond. When the green balloon of text appears, I blow out a breath of relief.

You have a weird way of showing it

Not quite the response I was going for, but at least she hasn’t given up on me.

So I love 2 fly, right? But my dad’s grounded me. So sometimes I have 2 take the edge off. Fighting’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt anyone else. I mean, ppl r there bc they want to b.

I feel like I’m cracking open my chest and letting her see inside. It’s not pretty there, but I don’t want to let her go.

Give me another chance, H

Oh. OK. I don’t get it, but I do at the same time. You’re forgiven, but I can’t this weekend

I scrunch my nose. I don’t like that. That means she’ll stew the whole weekend about the fight.

What’s up? I’m free to help out

If you’re genuinely sorry, then give me the weekend

Why? I can show u im sorry in person

Or you can show me you’re sorry by respecting my request

Is this adulting cuz I don’t think I like it much

You’re welcome. This is followed by: Thank you for being real

I send her a smiley face, but she doesn’t respond. And after ten minutes of staring at my lonely little emoji, I get the message. She’s done with me today.

Time slows to a crawl when you’re bored. Each minute feels like an hour. Each hour feels like a day. By mid-afternoon, I’m convinced that a whole month has passed.