I raise a brow, hesitating, not wanting to go there. “Nah, it’s all right.” I put my hands in my pockets, rocking back on my heels. “How about we go home, get some shut-eye? Pick up where we left off in the morning?” It’s late, and I’m tired.
He makes his way over, places his hand on my back, and leans in. His breath sweeps across my face. “Humble isn’t a good look on you, son.” He turns around. “Would someone do me the honors of filling Gage in? Surely one of you knows.”
“I don’t care who he is,” Gage grumbles, his fists clenched closely at his sides.
“Let it go, Dad.” The word slips out of my mouth before I can take it back—call it an error in judgment due to sleep deprivation. I haven’t called him that in ages, and I don’t plan on starting now.
“He’s a professional fighter. Mixed martial arts,” Warren tells him. “I told you, Gage, you’re playing with fire.”
“Again, I don’t care who he is.”
“Marcus, take his gun.”
I narrow my eyes as Marcus obeys. You’re kidding me. “You want me to fight him?”
He smiles. “I do. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.” The rest of the guys egg us on, already pumped to see some action. Gage just stares me down, bobbing his head as though he’s ready to start.
I let out a laugh. “Trust me. I’d love to give this dick what he deserves, but I won’t go easy on him—not after what he pulled today.” I stare back.
“Who said anything about easy?”
Gage bounces around, circling his shoulders, then spits. “You don’t scare me, asshole.” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Gage all but begs for me to fight him … and I will. That piece of shit preys on defenseless women and wouldn’t think twice about taking the life of a child. Today’s memory brings a spike of adrenaline that now overshadows my fatigue. Suddenly, slamming my fist through his teeth no longer seems like such a bad idea.
I rotate my wrists, stretching out my neck and shoulders. “You sure you want to do this?”
Pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it behind him, he says, “Never been more sure of anything in my life.”
I lie awake, frozen at the sound of someone walking outside my bedroom window, a shadow lurking on the wall. My father left me with tearstained cheeks, the taste still lingering on my tongue. I wipe them away and climb out of bed, searching my room for a weapon. I’d rather do this alone than involve the person responsible for the throbbing above my eye. Reaching for my bat, I creep toward the window, hoping my imagination has gotten the best of me. The only barrier I have is the thin cotton material of my curtain. An outline of a person stands on the other side. My pulse quickens, and my body trembles. I’m terrified. Stretching out the bat, using the end to open the curtain, I find a boy holding up his hands. He takes a step back.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” His gaze is steady on the bat. “You’re safe. I promise,” he says, his voice calm.
I loosen my grip, recognizing the boy from across the street, then place my weapon on the ground, embarrassed. I don’t know why he’s here. He’s older—he drives a car—and we’ve barely ever talked to each other.
The darkness outside makes my injury easier to hide. Maybe he won’t notice. He watches me with gentle eyes, and the corner of his mouth tips up.
I look at what he’s wearing, assuming he just crawled out of bed. He’s got on pajama pants and a hoodie that doesn’t match. His hair is sticking up. It’s the middle of January. It’s cold, late—too late for him to be here—and way past my bedtime. If my father catches us, I’ll be hiding my face for a while.
Realizing that my weapon is no longer a threat, he lowers his hands. “Can you hear me? I’ll try to be quiet.”
I peek over my shoulder to check that my door is still closed; I turn and give him a nod.
“You probably shouldn’t talk,” he replies. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.” When I look at him, confused, he adds, “Just nod your head yes or no. All right?”
I agree.
His gaze falls to the ground, and he scratches the back of his head. “I saw what happened … with your dad earlier.” Shoving his hands into his pockets, he continues, “Are you hurt?” he asks sincerely.
I want to disappear. He saw my dad hit me? I blush. Probably saw me crying, too. Closing my eyes, mortified, I wonder what all he had seen, and how it looked from the outside.
“Does he do it a lot?”
My eyes open. I press my lips into a tight line and force myself to answer. It’s only when he drinks. If it weren’t for the alcohol, he wouldn’t do it. The problem, though? He drinks all the time.