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“Good girl. Make sure to always do that. Provide for yourself.”
I bit my tongue on what I wanted to say. Because no matter what I wanted to do, I’d never kick a person when they were down.
Unlike D.J.
Even though my heart didn’t want to, my gut told me to leave. So I did. I left my mother to chug back her beer-laced coffee and I headed straight for school. With every step I took, I grew infuriated with D.J. With every step I took, comics unfolded in my mind. Graphic novels with curt colors, dripping with blood from D.J.’s veins. I shook with fury as I walked out of the neighborhood, trying to focus on where I was going.
Why the hell did men like D.J. and Clint have to exist in this world?
That was exactly who my mother’s boyfriend reminded me of, too. Clinton fucking Clarke. The two of them were cocky. Arrogant. Angry. Entitled. Rude.
Flat-out mean.
As the mouth of my neighborhood dumped me onto the curb, I made my way for Allison and Michael. They flagged me down with their arms, and I gave them both a thumbs-up, letting them know I was cleared to come over this weekend. The two of them high-fived as I picked up the pace, letting my dark, dank neighborhood fall into the background as the green grass and rolling white picket fences of our quaint area in Riverbend fill my view.
Then something whooshed by me.
The roaring of the motorcycle engine caught me off-guard, and I flinched. I knew it was Clint, and my only hope was that he hadn’t seen me. I picked up the pace, jogging down the sidewalk to try and get to Allison and Michael. But when I saw his brake lights flash, I grumbled to myself.
Especially when it pulled over to the curb. Blocking my path to my friends.
Great. Just great.
He pulled off his helmet. “Well, well, well. Good morning, detention rat.”
I ignored him and kept walking, watching as Michael bolted for me. Allison trailed behind him, trying to get to me before Clint could do any sort of damage to my morning.
Then I heard him whistle. “Nice ass, Cleaver.”
Michael linked his arm with mine. “Put a sock in it, Clinton.”
Allison snickered. “Yeah. Go terrorize someone your own size.”
Clint chuckled. “Trust me, that ass is big enough for me.”
Allison scoffed. “Disgusting pig.”
“I like watching you walk away, Cleaver! You should wear skinny jeans more often!”
I went to swirl around, but Michael tightened his grip on me. Allison’s hand fell to the small of my back as the two of them escorted me across the street. I wanted to smack that fucking grin right off Clint’s face. I wanted to ball-stomp him into the curb until he was crying out for his drug-addled mommy. Yes, Clint was D.J. The younger, more pompous version. What I wouldn't give to put the two of them in a room and give Clint the rude awakening that was coming to him.
Maybe he’d turn into a decent human being if he knew being a womanizing, abusive asshole was his future.
We got across the road and I heard Clint rev the engine of his bike. I spun around, ripping away from my two best friends as I glared hotly at him. He puckered his lips, blowing me a kiss before he wiggled his tongue around in the air. And as he slid his helmet back onto his head, I stuck my middle finger up. Just for him. For his eyes only to take in.
And as he rushed by us on his bike, I heard him laughing at me.
“Come on, let’s get you inside,” Allison said softly.
The burning sensation on the backs of my eyes made me feel weak, frustrated, incompetent. I was tired of that asshole, and I didn’t know why he wouldn't stop torturing me. I’d watched my mother bend to these men her entire life. And I knew if I simply stood up to them as they came into my life, I’d be fine. They’d go away. They’d find some other woman to torture and I’d be free of them.
But I was standing up to Clint. And he kept coming back. If I ignored Clint, he’d only come at me harder. Why couldn’t he leave me alone? Why couldn’t he go pick on someone else?
I didn't understand it anymore.
“So what color do you want your toes painted tonight?” Michael asked.
I cleared my throat. “Red sounds nice.”
