e his standard answer.
“So, that was Ricky Ames?” Travis asked. “He’s a lot smaller in person.”
“That’s him,” he ground out.
“He’s a shit. One in need of a good ass-kicking.” Brock didn’t disagree with Travis’s take on things.
“Good thing you didn’t give it to him. You would have broken him with, like, one hit. Broken broken.” Krystal bent to scoop up a three-legged dog with a puff of fur on its head.
“I’m not the violent sort.” Not that Brock hadn’t been tempted. But Emmy…she’d been standing there, looking so damn panicked, he’d managed to control himself. For her?
Travis snorted. “Your face said differently.”
“He was thinking about it,” Krystal said. “Thinking about doing something is not the same thing as doing it. He can think all he wants. You should take a lesson from him, big brother.”
Travis rolled his eyes. “Wait a sec. Now you’re defending Brock? I thought you just said you don’t like him?”
“He went all knight-in-shining-armor over our sister because the little shit wouldn’t leave her alone. I can’t hate on him too much right now.” Krystal pointed at Ricky Ames, the dog staring in the direction she pointed. “Besides, I don’t like Ames even more. He is a total dick.”
Brock didn’t correct Krystal. Their confrontation had nothing to do with Emmy… No, dammit, that wasn’t true. Was he pissed that Ames was making Russell wait? Hell yes. But would he have confronted the shit if Ames hadn’t been outright leering down at Emmy? Best not answer that.
“He’s just a…a kid. An egocentric, living-in-his-own-fantasy-land, totally rude…” But then Emmy sputtered to a stop. “You know what? He is that. Exactly what you said Krystal.” Her gaze met Brock’s. She was upset—cheeks stained red, green eyes flashing, and lips pressed tight.
Hell, Emmy Lou was angry.
He could count all the times he’d ever seen her truly angry on one hand. Sure, Travis had made a habit out of frustrating her, but that wasn’t the same thing. Agreeing with Krystal’s curse was probably the closest he’d ever heard her come to out-and-out insulting someone.
Which made him wonder what the hell Ricky Ames had done or said to her before he got there. From what he’d seen, Ames had done most of the talking. “What did he say to you?” The words were out before he could stop them.
She opened her mouth, then stopped. A slight crease formed between her brows.
“Emmy?” He tried again, softer this time.
“Nothing.” She glanced at her siblings, reminding him of the attentive audience gathered around them. “So, barbecue? Are you still hungry, Jace? Krystal?”
“I could eat.” Jace tugged on Krystal’s hand. “Sweet tea?”
Krystal smiled, leaning into him. “Sounds good. Don’t you think so, Clem?” The dog’s tail was wagging frantically.
“I’m done. Food it is,” Emmy Lou said, all forced enthusiasm. “Ready?”
She didn’t want to talk to him. Message received. He swallowed hard.
“Wanna join us?” Travis asked, knowing exactly what he was doing.
Hell no. Like it or not, Emmy Lou King was his kryptonite. The less time they spent together, the better. So even if Emmy Lou wasn’t so anxious to leave or Krystal wasn’t shooting daggers at Travis or Jace didn’t look so damned uncomfortable, he still wouldn’t go. “Practice,” he muttered. “Good to see you all.” Surprisingly, it was.
“Next time?” Travis was getting under his sisters’ skin and enjoying every minute of it. “We’ll meet you and Sawyer there, Em?”
Brock didn’t wait for her answer or goodbyes as he headed back across the field. Whatever this was, it was over. Time to get his head in the game. He had work to do. Even though Stan was going to give him an earful for running late, he was feeling pretty damn good. Ames might have given him a bloody lip, but it had earned him a week without the kid talking shit and baiting him. Brock could handle that.
Emmy Lou brushed past him, running through the speakers, lighting equipment, and backdrop for tomorrow’s filming. Her ponytail swayed and there was an extra skip in her steps—she’d always had a certain energy, positive and enthusiastic and contagious. Even as she stooped to grab something from the ground, she sort of bounced on the balls of her feet. But when she stood, she took one step, teetered, and started to fall. She caught herself on one of the large speakers but her wince, her soft “ow,” had him changing direction. Before he figured out why he felt compelled to make sure she was okay when most of her family was here to take care of her, he was standing beside her.
“My ankle.” Her nose was wrinkled. “I tripped. It popped.”
Considering the web of cords on the turf, he wasn’t surprised. “Bad?” he asked.
“Um…it hurts.” And yet she attempted to smile—with tears in her eyes.