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The guy’s massive throat moved as he swallowed. “Wha—you know Tabatha?”
“Did you know she was only with you because of her father and the threats to her mother?”
Harper didn’t answer, jumping to the left as Jordan circled on the right. He jumped the other way as Jordan completed his move, and so on. They kept dancing around, except one was prowling and the other wanted to hide.
“Wha–what are you talking about?”
“Answer the goddamn question.” Jordan lunged. He was in Harper’s face.
Harper cowered, his legs trembling. The front of his khaki shorts darkened. Liquid moved down his leg.
Jordan saw it, his eyes skimming down.
No one mentioned it.
“Did you know Tabatha was whoring herself to get your dad off her dad’s back?”
The guy looked frozen in place, unable to answer.
“DID YOU KNOW?!”
“Yes! Yes.” Harper’s eyes closed. He gritted his teeth, flinching, then he looked at the ground. “Yes. I knew. I knew that’s why she was with me.”
That’s all Jordan needed.
His eyes were still hard, looking dead as he skimmed over us. He wanted to do more than hurt him. His gaze fell to me, then to Cross. It stayed on Cross, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was remembering a time we had to plead with him also. Hurting was fine. Permanently hurting was a whole different ballgame. And beyond that, never go there.
I moved forward, my voice low. “No, Jordan.”
He swung away, but I saw the strickened look there. It mingled with something so cold that it seared me. It brought me back to my room, a night when I was a little girl and heard my drunk father bring home some friends. The same night that had been the last night I slept in her house.
“Don’t, Jordan.”
“He’s not fighting me.” He stepped toward Harper again. “You touched her knowing she didn’t want to touch you?”
The guy nodded, not even fighting anymore. Tears were streaming down his face.
A look of such utter contempt and disgust flared over Jordan’s face, tightening his features until I barely recognized him. He could do it, what I knew a part of him wanted to do right now. He wanted it. He yearned for it. I saw the look, and the old Bren was stirring.
She felt it in the air.
She was wakening.
The firefly was there. I felt its presence. It was lingering on the sidelines, waiting to come into the frame, but no. I shook her off.
We were better.
We had been better.
I thought…
“Just hurt him, Jordan.” I was the only one pleading, and I looked over my shoulder. Both Cross and Zellman had hard expressions on their faces.
Cross met my gaze. “If it were you?”
Zellman’s eyes narrowed. “If it were Sunday?”
Jordan shook his head, stopping, closing his eyes. He let his head fall back, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “It already was Tabatha. And he’ll do it again. Another girl. Another situation. Maybe that time he’ll go farther? What do you want me to do?”
If Jordan started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. That’s what I was fighting against here.
I stepped forward, my foot moving over the dirt. “Not what you want to do.” I couldn’t believe we were back here. Risking the loss of Cross had been enough. Jordan had been with me. He’d been helping me fight to reason with Cross. Now we were here again?
I got that we went dark, but not this dark. There were lines.
There had to be lines. Boundaries.
“We cannot cross this line. Hurt him, but that’s it.”
Jordan turned on me, roaring, “HE WON’T FIGHT BACK!”
Fine. My teeth ground against each other. We’d make him fight back.
I strode forward, my fist ready, and I swung first. I got him on a downward swing, and he stumbled a few feet, shaking his head. I was a girl, but I knew how to hit.
I taunted him, “Fight, fucker. You’re not going to get away from us scar free. Fight.” I kicked out this time, taking out his knee. He crumbled, and then I swung down again. He fell to the ground and I almost spat on him, needing him to get this through his head. “GET UP! You want to touch women you know don’t want to touch you? You get off on that shit? Be a man. Fight back. Take your hits. Right? Is that what you’d say to me? A woman? A girl?” And because he wasn’t standing, I swung again.
And again.
Again.
I kept hitting until he wasn’t moving.
My knuckles were split open, bleeding.
Still, he didn’t fight back.
He wasn’t unconscious. I knew my strength. I knew my limit. I wasn’t crossing that.
He was going to be bruised. He’d be sore. He might have trouble walking for a day or two, but I wasn’t doing the damage he was acting that I was giving him.
I screamed at him, “You don’t deserve to get off with just this! STAND UP!”
