Page 35 of Like You Know

“Folks know to mind their own damn business in this neighborhood, princess,” Douchebag 2 said. “Scream all you want. No one’s coming to save you.”

Adrenaline pumped through my veins at the implication. Flight wasn’t an option—they were blocking the stairs—and I was not a freeze kind of girl, so I guessed I’d go down fighting. Because they would have to kill me before I let myself get raped.

I brought my knee up, aiming for Douchebag 1’s balls, but he dropped his grip on my arm and twisted out of the way. I shoved him, hoping he’d break his neck on the stairs. Then I turned to run up the way I’d come. They were drunk and I ran nearly every day. Maybe I could outrun them long enough to make it back to Jet’s door.

Douchebag 1 stumbled and nearly met the fate I’d hoped for, but his buddies caught him. Douchebag 3 was tall and threw out a long arm, catching my hoodie over the railing and thwarting my escape attempt.

Panic shot through me, and I did scream—a piercing sound that echoed off the concrete walls. I thrashed and kicked, shouting profanities at them between banshee screeches.

Only seconds passed between me shoving the first guy and the three of them crowding me into the corner.

A clanging sound of metal on metal made us all look up. There was Jet, standing a few steps above us, leaning casually on the railing. I’d never been so happy to see someone in my entire life.

“Boys.” He flashed them his easy, dimpled grin. “You’re keeping half the building up with all this noise. Is there a problem?”

“Nothing that’s any of your business, kid. Get lost.” Douchebag 2 turned to face Jet and pulled a knife out.

My panic tripled at the sight of the weapon.

Jet sighed and raised his right hand, the one gripping a gleaming gun. He rested it on his left forearm, still leaning on the handrail.

“Yeah, see, the thing is, she is my business.” He nodded at me. “And if you don’t get your hands off her immediately, I’m going to get really fucking pissed off.” He dropped the easy smile and stared them down.

“Bullshit she is,” Douchebag 1 spat but released his hold on me anyway.

Jet took the safety off slowly, deliberately, his expression not cracking. It was unnerving how calm he was—how comfortable he was pointing that gun at people.

The Douchebags must’ve come to the same conclusion, because they tucked away their silly knife and their stupid attitudes and backed away. Jet waited until they were out of sight before he moved toward me.

“Joke’s on them for bringing a knife to a gun fight,” I quipped, but there was no humor in it, and to my horror, my chuckles turned into sobs.

Next thing I knew, my face was pressed to Jet’s chest—covered in a T-shirt now—and his arm wrapped around my back to keep me from sliding to the dirty floor. I held on to him, fighting to get my shit together as the adrenaline exited my body as violently as it had invaded it.

After a while, the sobs stopped and the tears dried up, but I couldn’t seem to pull away from his comforting embrace. His hand on my back rubbed soothing circles, while his other hand still gripped the gun by his side.

I lifted my head as a horrible thought struck me. “What if they come back? With more people and guns and stuff?”

Jet wiped a stray tear off my cheek, his eyes scanning me. “They won’t come back. I’ll keep you safe,” he declared. I believed him. “Did they hurt you?”

I shook my head, perversely pleased at the way his jaw had ticked and his eyes had flashed with menace when he voiced his concern.

“Good.” He took a small step back. “Let’s get out of here. It smells like piss.”

I managed a laugh that didn’t collapse into sobs again. It really did smell awful, and my skin was starting to crawl—especially on my back where I’d been leaning against the wall.

He took my hand as we descended the stairs, and I held on to it tightly.

“Did you put your gun back together before coming after me?” I asked, the barrier between my brain and my mouth severely compromised. I immediately felt like an idiot for even assuming he’d been coming after me at all. Maybe he’d just decided to go out.

“No. This is a different gun,” he said softly, managing to keep his voice from echoing off the walls.

I gave him a wide-eyed look. “How many guns do you have?”

“A few.” He smirked, refusing to meet my eyes.

By the time we reached the ground floor and exited the building, I felt more like myself. Meaning I was pissed off at the audacity of those jerks for trying to attack me like that, and I was back to being frustrated and confused by Jet.

The parking lot was empty, but I didn’t miss the way Jet scanned it repeatedly before tucking the gun into the waistband of his shorts and hiding it under his T-shirt.