Shifting Gears

12. An Unlikely Savior

Relief flooded me like a tsunami as a new voice entered the conversation from behind the blond racer jeering at me.

"Jennings, good to know you're just as much of a jerk here as in Omayle."

The man in front of me—"Jennings", I guess—froze, his sneer melting from amusement to a frown of annoyance as he turned around. Weight was ripped off of me as he took a step away. I still hugged myself tightly, trying to make myself as small as possible. But to my further relief, everyone seemed to take a step back. My breathing got a bit easier.

I had to lean to the side to look past Jennings to see who it was, but I knew from the voice. Greyson stood there, hands in his pocket. Even in the darkness, I could see his bright emerald eyes. He stood easily, looking relaxed, but his gaze was alert, and his jaw was clenched. The mess of coffee-colored hair that fell into his eyes ruffled slightly in the breeze.

"Ryvers," Jennings said coldly to the newcomer. "Come to have your fair share?"

"Just came over because I saw you and your sidekicks and knew you're always doing dumb things," Greyson responded smoothly. His voice was deep, and though the words were playful, they held an edge.

Jennings was quiet for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder at me, his sickly blue eyes landing on me and then back to Greyson. "She yours?"

Greyson let out a scoff. "She's as hardheaded as they come, Jennings, good luck making her anybody's."

My heart was still pounding, but I was able to breathe easier—not saying I was ecstatic to see that Greyson was my savior, but something in me felt relieved. For some reason, I knew that he wouldn't let these guys do anything to me.

"So that mean's she's up for grabs?" Jennings pushed, arms crossing. "Might take a swing, then."

Greyson's sharp jaw clenched tighter, and I saw his shoulders tense up under his dark grey t-shirt. He took a deep breath, then came a few steps forward, stopping just an arm's length away from Jennings.

"Do not touch her," the brown-haired racer said through gritted teeth. I hadn't ever realized just how tall Greyson was, but seeing him next to Jennings who stood easily close to six feet, I noted with amusement how Jennings had to look up slightly to meet his opponent's eyes.

Greyson cast a menacing figure. A lot of the racers here were skinner, all they did was eat and race, building only the necessary muscles for that. There also were a lot of short racers.

Greyson was neither of these things, and his arms were far from twigs, his eyes the farthest thing from scared, and his attitude the most farthest thing from merciful. "Don't mess with me, Jennings."

Playfulness was gone, Greyson's tone was dangerous and filled with warning. Even when he spoke with Clay in their daily clash sessions, his voice never sounded like this. Greyson hated this Jennings with a different hatred.

Jennings glared at Greyson, and they had a stare-down for about five flat seconds before I saw Jennings's mouth clench, and his head lowered slightly. It looked like even though my brother's name might not mean much to them, Greyson had his own credibility amongst his fellow transfers from Omayle. Enough of a credibility that even Jennings, with his backup buddies, didn't want to test him.

Jennings reluctantly stepped to the side, the sides of his mouth pulled in a weird angle as he tried to cover his mixture of anger with a huff.

"You're lucky you're Ryvers's, sweetheart," Jennings sneered at me. "Make sure you stick by him, others from Omayle might not be as...understanding."

He had barely finished his sentence before Greyson had stepped forward, intentionally ramming his shoulder into Jennings and sending him stumbling back a few feet. A couple of the cronies behind Jennings grabbed him, holding him steady. He muttered a few words toward Greyson that would make Mother Theresa roll over in her grave, but he didn't retaliate, and gestured to his sidekicks to not as well.