“Goddamn it,” Aaron growls out, using his bat to try to dislodge the heavy wood door. But it won’t budge, and we’re running out of time. Six of the clown-masked idiots stumble into the room, surrounding us. Aaron doesn’t hesitate to hand me his bat, whipping a gun out from inside his trench coat. “Don’t try me tonight, or I’ll splatter your brains all over the walls.”

“Really?” one of our attackers asks, and since her voice isn’t being manipulated by a voice changer, I know right away that it’s Billie I’m talking to. “Because we’re here to meet you on your terms this time.” One of the guys pulls out a pistol of his own and levels it on me. “You’re going to choke on blood for what you did to my brother.”

Aaron doesn’t bother to respond to her threat. Instead, he just pulls the trigger and sends the guy stumbling back into the wall. He’s shot him right in the shoulder, in the red spot where he’d applied the fake blood to his faux wound. Guess it’s a real one now, huh? A nice match for Mitch.

But Clown-Guy isn’t the only person in that room with a gun, and as Aaron moves his own weapon to take another shot, one is coming right at my chest. Without thinking, my ex steps right in front of me, taking the bullet meant for me.

It’s all happening so fast, and it’s so damn hard to see in here that I can’t tell where Aaron’s been hit. The thing is, he doesn’t even drop. Instead, he lifts his own weapon up and fires again, shattering one of the mirrors. Everyone in the room scatters, including us, ducking behind the wood frames of the mirrors to hide.

Pretty sure I’m just saying holy fuck over and over again. My fingers search for blood as I probe Aaron’s chest, and he slumps to the floor. He’s shaking, but I don’t see any red as I unzip his hoodie and find that he’s actually wearing fucking Kevlar underneath. That is, I don’t see any red until I grab his arm. Looks like in all the hubbub, he was shot twice, once in the chest and once in the left bicep.

“You guys don’t fuck around, do you?” I whisper, quivering as Aaron forces a tight smile to his face.

“Not particularly,” he says, pushing me aside and trying to sit up. Blood leaks from his left arm, smearing my fingers with crimson when I reach out to take a look. “No time.” Aaron pulls away from me, stumbling a bit as he tries to stand. I don’t know a lot about guns or Kevlar or any of that shit, but I do know that getting hit in a ‘bulletproof’ vest still hurts like a bitch and leaves one hell of a bruise.

I have a brief moment there where I wonder if all the guys are wearing Kevlar, and why I’m not. But there’s not exactly a lull in the conversation for me to ask about that. Instead, two of the clown-masked dickheads break through the fog as Aaron lifts up his bat and takes a swing. I move back, out of range of the weapon, ready to jump in if I need to. This is fucking insane, I think, remembering how I agonized all summer about my choice to approach Havoc.

And this is where it’s gotten me.

“Hey, bitch,” Billie says, appearing behind me and lifting her mask up her face. She’s got that knife of hers back in hand. My lips purse, but I’m not afraid of her. I’ve kicked her ass before, and I’ll do it again. “Mitch thinks I should leave you alone, but I’m tired of seeing you strut around Prescott like you own the place.”

“I do own it,” I say, my voice cool and even, the air pulsing with music, fog drifting around my ankles. “Because I hold Havoc’s leash.” I shrug my shoulders, giving off the air of nonchalance, even if my heart is thundering, and I want nothing more than to glance back and check on Aaron. But no. I have to prove that I’m in control here. Fighting is one-part physical prowess and two-parts bravado. “If you hurt me, they’ll kill you. You know that, right?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Billie says as a crash sounds from behind me, and I finally lose my own inner-fight and glance back to see Aaron struggling on the ground with a guy whose arms are the size of tree trunks. Danny Ensbrook, Kyler’s brother. Speaking of …

My head whips around just in time to intercept Billie as she comes for me, swinging that knife of hers in an arc. It isn’t hard for me to grab her wrist and drag her in close. It’s much harder to use a blade in close contact like this. As soon as I’ve got Billie in range, I lift my knee up and slam it into her crotch as hard as I can. Not as effective as kneeing a dude in the balls, but it still hurts like hell. My next move cracks Billie across the wrist, knocking her blade loose and sending it sliding across the floor and into the fog.

Teeth gritted in anger, she comes at me like a whirlwind, fists flying, throwing herself at me with reckless abandon. And this is one of the reasons why she’s so easy to beat. Not only is she thin and slight of frame, but she just goes into rages and stops thinking. I let her throw her entire weight into me and then duck low, slamming my shoulder into her stomach and tossing her over my back.

Billie hits the floor with a grunt, but as I’m turning to go for her, Kyler appears, his mask hanging around his neck. His yellow bruises flicker red in the dancing strobe lights as he sneers at me. There’s no hesitation when he comes at me, and I have to at least give him credit for trying to defend his girlfriend.

His much larger form slams into mine, but I’m used to this. I’ve been fighting off grown men for years.

I let his weight throw me to the ground, turning the move into a roll that puts some space between us as he stumbles and does his best to recover his feet. As Callum mentioned earlier, one of the pluses of being smaller is being faster. I’m up before Kyler is, throwing my elbow down on the back of his neck as hard as I can.

With a growl, he shoves his shoulder into my stomach, sending me stumbling back into another one of the funhouse mirrors. Glass shatters, littering the floor beneath my feet. Thank fuck I’m wearing these stupid white tennis shoes with the ribbons instead of heels or I’d be on my ass in no time.

Kyler throws a hard punch at my face, but I duck low and he ends up hitting the wood frame of the mirror, knocking it to the floor and sending the fog fluttering around us. I can see Aaron from here, fighting desperately to get to me, but he’s quite literally fending off three big dudes—including Danny Ensbrook—with another on the floor in front of him. Even with the face paint, I can see that he’s pale, that he’s hurting, and that he’s running out of energy.

We don’t have a lot of time here—especially if one of the Fuller High or Oak Valley idiots calls in the cops. Prescott kids know better, but those pretty, privileged assholes don’t know how we handle things in Southside Springfield.

I duck under Kyler’s next swing and dart past Billie as she comes at me, reaching up and grabbing onto the shoulders of one of Aaron’s attackers. As luck would have it, I dig my fingers into the wound on the guy’s shoulder and find my thumb bloodied as Mitch Charter screams in agony. Having his followers dress up with bandages on their shoulders was a smart idea, but he didn’t bother to hide the hideous Nazi tattoo on the back of his neck. Racist twat.

Mitch stumbles back and slams me into the wall, trying to dislodge me, but as usual, he’s underestimated my tenacity. My fight or fight harder instinct is going wild as I drop down and slide between his legs, twisting and falling onto my back so I can kick up and into his balls with my foot. There’s a lot of power behind that move, and Mitch goes down screaming.