I rarely use my hands in violence. Don't get me wrong, I do my own dirty work when I have to. But what I mean is that, if it can be helped, I wouldn't use my hands for the risk of injuring them. They're precious to me.
Knives, guns, or other weapons are the exceptions when I have to use my hands, otherwise, I use my legs—whereas Jax prefers his fists when he fights.
Neil has long given up trying to dodge every blow he receives from us. A kick from me, a punch from Jax—we alternate, giving zero fucks to Neil's curses after losing a few of his teeth. It's not enough, I tell myself as the memory of him manhandling Riri invades my head once again.
"What is going on here?" A deep voice rings from the end of the alley, causing us to halt. We turn our heads and a harsh light flashes on our faces. I raise my hand to shield my eyes. Jax and I remain calm, even as a police officer walks over, one hand raising the flashlight while the other touching the gun on his hip.
