Kian
"What do you mean? It's nothing. Kian, you arrived home with blood on your shirt. Do you think I was born yesterday?" Jaxton's mom, Jenna, chastised, tapping her foot anxiously.
"No, ma'am," I replied, avoiding eye contact.
Jenna was scary when angered. She wore a fistful of golden rings that doubled as a set of knuckle dusters: a present from her husband, which was befitting of a biker queen.
Throttle was standing at the side of his wife with his arms folded in front of his chest. His left brow was arched above his eye like he didn't believe a word I was saying.
"Start talking, boy, or my fingers will start dialing the school's number," he threatened, convinced that the incident had taken place there.
“I made a promise to your poppa at his graveside, and I intend to fulfill tha
