Page 75 of Forever Relentless

“I’m allowed to, I’m your brother, and you know I don’t mean it.” I kept my face calm, but my left hand tightened into a fist. “What did he call you?”

“Noah, I—”

“Tate. Tell me now.”

“He called me a faggot.”

For one second, every reasonable thought I had disappeared. “Well, I’ve never called you that,” I growled softly.

Tate looked up at me, earnestness shining in his eyes. “But he got a lot of heat for it, so many people booed him and told him it wasn’t cool, and that he was a dick. He won’t do it again.”

No, he won’t.

“He learned his lesson,” Tate told me, believing every word. “It’s the second semester, and he’s getting better every day. Some days I don’t even notice him.”

“Are you stupid?” I snapped. “He’s not getting better. He isn’t learning anything. He’s getting shut down by his peers, and that’s what’s keeping him quiet. Not his change of attitude. Not his intent to not fucking bully you. It hasn’t gone away. He just doesn’t have the same audience he used to.” I forced myself to lower my voice. Getting stressed about Tate’s bully only upset my brother. “Did he do anything other than name calling?”

Tate shook his head, not meeting my eyes. He sighed. “You don’t have to interrogate me every call.”

“You don’t have to answer like you’re under oath.” I softened my tone. “Tate, just tell me. I’m far enough away that I won’t jump in my car and kick his ass tonight.”

“Yeah, tonight.” He gave a small smile. “It’s tomorrow or the next day I worry about.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t promise how I’ll feel tomorrow.” I waited a moment for my brother to relax. “Tell me.”

“He punched me in the back. Maybe. I dunno . . .”

The screen went very still in my hand.

“It could have been him, or someone else, as we left class. It’s like a stampede leaving general relativity and cosmology class, and the hall becomes quite crowded really quickly.”

I didn’t hide my smile. “I can’t imagine why,” I drawled.

I thought of the fucker Brock Bronson and how the fuck he managed to get into the same school as Tate, which pissed me off. His father had money and was an alumnus or some shit. I had no doubt a shitload of green had crossed the palms of the administration to get that fuckhead of a son into that school.

“You okay?” I asked Tate. My brother was a clever guy. He had terrible social skills, and common sense was as elusive to him as his brain capacity was to me. But he was a good guy. A kind guy. But a timid guy.

Bullies love timid people. Nothing to make you feel bigger than beating down the person you know won’t fight back. Well, I’m not the fucking little guy. I’d kicked his ass before, and it seemed like he needed a reminder.

Did that make me the bully? No. I pick on guys my size. Brock Bronson was my size and liked to throw a punch at people who didn’t hit back.

I hit back.

And I hit back harder.

That feeling of restlessness returned, and I knew that I really needed to get to the gym and either spend a good hour with the bag or find a good sparring partner.

“You tell anyone?” I asked.

“I don’t need you calling my dean.”

“That wasn’t what I said.”

He studied me through the screen. He knew me well enough to hear what I hadn’t said. “I can handle it,” he said.

I believed him. That was the problem. I’d believed him before — believed his shrug, his ‘it’s fine,’ his stubborn refusal to let me step in. I’d given him space, and Tate had sat on it alone for too long before I found out what had actually been happening.

“I know you can,” I replied smoothly, not letting him see my doubts.