Something in my voice must convey the seriousness of the situation, because she does what I say. Jonas, on the other hand, takes a step toward her. “I should shut that mouth for you.”

“You need to get the fuck out of here,” I tell him, standing in front of Mac. “Now.”

“You don’t tell me what to do, Gravy. You fucking obey. As always.”

It burns that Mac hears my shame. That I ever obeyed this asshole. But no more.

“You’re making a fool out of yourself,” I tell him. “Go on. We’re done here.”

Jonas’s nostrils flare. Instinct has me transferring my weight onto the balls of my feet, my thighs clenching, prepping for a tackle. Jonas is a big motherfucker, but he’s been out of the game for years, and I’m stronger, faster, with better balance. He’ll go down and stay down.

Because he is, at heart, still a lineman, he reads my intent with perfect clarity. It’s in the eyes. We’ve been trained to broadcast “I’m gonna fuck your shit up” with one look.

“You think you can take me, little bro?” Jonas smirks like there’s no chance.

“I can bench four-thirty, so that just might be enough to toss you.” I shouldn’t taunt Jonas but he brings out the worst in me.

He bares his teeth at me. “I shit bigger than you.”

“I believe it.”

When he makes a noise as if he’ll soon charge, I clench my fists. But Ivy’s cool hand lands on my stomach. “He isn’t worth it, Gray.”

Her dark eyes are wide and worried, gleaming up at me with a silent plea. And I soften. I don’t want her to see this ugliness. But my distraction is a mistake. I hear Jonas snarl.

“Thought I told you to mind your fucking business, girlie.”

He lunges, and I can only think of Ivy, threatened. My vision goes white, a roar tears from my throat. I’m barely aware of moving. I slam into Jonas with enough force to rattle my bones. Fisting his shirt, I propel him upwards, my thighs bunching with effort. And he goes airborne.

His massive shape is a silhouette in the streetlight, and then he’s crashing down onto the pavement with a loud thud. I stand over him, my teeth grinding. A slow shake works deep through my guts. “Get the fuck out of here, or I will end you.”

He stares at me, all wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open. Blood dribbles from his lip, and my knuckles throb. Had I hit him? I don’t even remember doing it. But he spits a glob of red from his mouth as he rolls over, so I must have. Slowly he stands.

We stare at each other for a long moment. When I speak, the finality of our relationship feels like shards going down my throat. “Don’t ever talk to me again.”

He just shakes his head. “Mom wasted her time on the wrong kid.”

And then he leaves me there, gutted and filled with useless rage.

* * *

Ivy

Rain has started to fall. It taps against the roof of Gray’s truck with a metallic rattle and runs in rivulets down the fogged-up windows. Inside, it’s warm, the old heater blowing steadily as we sit not speaking.

We’re parked in front of my house, listening to Nine Inch Nails’ Right Where it Belongs play softly on the radio, the sound haunting in the relative silence. Gray hasn’t moved, and I’m hesitant about saying a word. He’s clearly in his own world right now, his strong profile unmoving as carved stone as he stares blindly forward.

Every line of his body is tense, as if he might shatter if he moves, and I hate it. I’d seen the rage and the fear cloud his eyes when his brother taunted him. I’d seen the hurt and shame. Gray is in pain, and that is unacceptable.

Slowly, my hand slides across the truck’s leather bench seat. His fingers are curled into a fist, but the moment I touch him, he opens his hand, turning his palm upward to clasp my own. Until I feel the warmth of his touch, I don’t realize how much I’d needed it.

We don’t speak. Gray’s hand engulfs mine. For a moment, I simply sit and soak in the small connection between us. It’s strange how good it feels just to do this. Almost absently, he traces the back of my hand, down the sensitive edges of my fingers and over my knuckles. Pleasure hums along my skin.

I explore as well, sliding a finger along the length of his as the tip of my thumb strokes his palm. I love Gray’s hands. Warm, rough skin. Long fingers and broad palms, and the strength. He could crush my hand without effort yet he holds onto me as though I’m made of spun sugar. Tenderness batters my heart.

“Hey,” I whisper. “What kind of shoes do spies wear?”

At first I don’t think he’s heard me, then Gray’s lips twitch. “Don’t know.”

“Sneakers.”

“Har.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as his smile grows. Still he stares out the window.

I give his hand a small squeeze. “What do you get when you cross a vampire with a snowman?”

“What?”

“Frostbite.”

Gray snorts. And then his eyes find mine. They glint with humor in the dim interior. “What’s green and smells like pork?”

Relieved that he’s engaging, I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning. “What?”

“Kermit’s finger.”

“Eew.” I laugh as I bat his arm. “That is vile.”

His broad shoulders shake as his laugh rolls out. He has a gorgeous laugh, booming and infectious. And right now, it’s the best sound in the world.