“I’m going to have to call bullshit.”
“No, this is different. I’ll be honest, man, I’ve never partaken in half the shit we’ve done this semester.”
I chuckle. “Same.”
He cracks a grin. “I suspected as much. And I’ll admit I’ve enjoyed it. I think my issue is that I just want the freedom to decide, you know what I mean?”
My reply is cut off, as is my view of him as he’s pinned to the brick, his eyes going wide at the sudden appearance of the man between us.
“Vide tes poches. Maintenant.” Empty your pockets. Now.
I didn’t see him. Not at all. He was background noise, a pedestrian walking down a typically busy Parisian street. I didn’t think a thing about the man approaching us because I was fully immersed in our conversation. Preston seems just as surprised as the man glares between us, producing a knife out of thin air before thrusting it toward me. I barely manage to escape the tip, jumping back to the curb.
Satisfied with the space the move provided him, he grips Preston by the collar, pressing the tip of the blade into the base of his throat. I’m three feet away at most, and I know with just a little more pressure or a fast flick of his wrist, Preston will die.
Something inside me breaks with Preston’s expression, and I leap forward, jerking the man’s head back by the hair before smashing his face into the brick just next to Preston’s shoulder. Adrenaline takes over as I fist the side of his head repeatedly until he goes limp and the knife clatters on the pavement at my feet. Once he’s on the ground, I kick him with the hard-edged heel of my shoe until his arms are no longer raised in defense.
With a quick glance around, I see we’re still alone and lift him from underneath the arms before glancing up at Preston. He’s still plastered against the brick, his eyes wide. I eye the camera at the entrance, thankful we’re just out of view.
“Grab his legs,” I blurt, panic rising as Dom’s face flits through my mind. This can’t be it. This can’t be the mistake that takes me out. “Preston, I can’t go to jail.” I don’t voice my bigger fear, that I’m unsure if the man is dead or not. I’ve never hit someone so hard in my life.
Preston leaps into action, and we carry the unconscious man to a nearby alley and drop him behind a dumpster. Bending, I press my fingers to his neck to check for a pulse.
“He alive?”
I nod and stand. “Come on.”
Preston stops me, gripping me by the shoulder. “Take his money.”
“What?”
He juts his chin to the unconscious thief and flits his hardening gaze back to mine. “It’s only fucking fair. Take his money.”
Turning back, I lean over the man and study the damage I’ve inflicted. His face is mangled, and there’s blood oozing from his ear.
“Do it, King.”
Ripping open his jacket, I check his pockets and retrieve a wad of bills, some frayed, some newer looking, and I know it’s not his. He didn’t earn a cent of it.
“Jackpot. He’s been at this all night.”
Pocketing the money, I join Preston where he stands before we wordlessly leave the alley, hastening when we see the limo waiting at the club entrance. Once the driver’s ushered us inside, he takes his seat behind the wheel. “Where to, Mr. Monroe?”
We stare off before he speaks up. “I’m hungry. You?”
I nod.
“Take us somewhere for breakfast. You choose.”
The driver speeds away from the curb. “Yes, sir.”
Preston lifts his chin toward me. “You’re going to have to lose the jacket.”