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My hand tightens on my phone when that image shifts, and I see Nala like I saw Liza last night—defeated, broken, used and ignored because her story was one that’s told too often, and no one has an answer for it.
And she still fought; she fought for Liza, fought for every girl who would walk in with a similar story and not be believed. I tell myself that’s the reason I do this—because it’s time for someone to fight for her, however late. Something tells me I’m wrong, that Nala isn’t a girl who says one thing and means another, but I shove it to the back of my mind, and I pressDIAL.
+ + +
It’s pathetically easy to get in touch with Ezra Shields. Even easier to get him to meet me when I dangle the carrot he can’t refuse in front of him: a shitload of money, inherited, sitting in a bank un-invested.
Throw in Preston Brady’s name? And a rich kid, trying to prove to daddy he’s not really the fuckwitt he’s proven to be, scrambles to make the deal.
My father was not a good man, but he was a wealthy one. When he died, everything he owned, every cent he was worth, went to me. And because I was sixteen and struggling to understand if he had been an asshole who loved me and had the bad luck to die of cancer, or just an asshole Karma decided to take care of, I sold all physical properties, and left the rest of the money untouched in a bank. The only time I wrote a check from the account was when I went in search of Natalie that same year.
I found her, living in a shithole with her mother outside of Oakland. I wanted to save her, to somehow pay her back for the years she’d had to live like this because the only thing worse was living in a house with my father. But we weren’t siblings, and however scared she had been, her mother—the woman I had started thinking of asmy mother—had left me behind.
So I didn’t go and save her. I set up an anonymous account through my lawyer, and I made sure that as long as Natalie was alive, she and her mother lived somewhere decent, and that Natalie had health insurance and enough money to pay for her therapy and any tutors she might need when she couldn’t make it to school.
Four years ago, the money for her therapy was returned. An investigation showed that Natalie’s body had given out, and she was no longer in need of therapy, or education. At the age of nineteen, the genetic disease she had been born with killed her, and she no longer needed me.
Since that day, the money has sat untouched still, because though my father has been gone for seven years, I’m a man who wants nothing from him, and I’ve made my own money and used my own knowledge and brains to build my fortune. Except for today. Because today, my demons don’t matter, only Nala’s do.
If invoking my father’s name and fortune drags Ezra Shields out of his high-rise and into the open where I can have ten uninterrupted minutes with him, so fucking be it.
“Malcolm Brady?”
I turn at the sound of my name, and if I hadn’t already seen his picture, I wouldn’t believe for a second that this was the guy who hurt Nala. He’s five inches shorter than me, and can only be described asslender.
It’s a word used to describe women for a reason.
His hands, his shoulders, the way his tiny-as-fuck frame barely fills out the light-gray suit that’s tailored within an inch of its life to fit this guy... all of it is slender. His hair is dark like mine, but he has it cut in the fuck-boy style that’s all the rage, perfectly parted and gelled so it doesn’t move, even in the wind.
He holds out his hand, and I’m tempted to snap it off right there. This guy preys on women for a reason—there isn’t a manly thing about him. I’d bet he has a dick that matches the size of his hand. Small and delicate for a perfect fit.
“On the phone you said you wanted to talk about a sensitive matter. Something about a couple million that came from ‘nowhere.’” His laugh is fake and slimy, like he’s more than willing to help me skirt around the law, either because he’s that desperate to bring in a big fish and show daddy he can do it, or because that’s how he was taught to do business.
I don’t say anything, but I do take his hand, squeezing it with enough force we both know bones are grinding together. He winces outwardly, eyes flashing to mine in pain and then anger while he quickly takes in my appearance.
My hat is pulled low, my tats are mostly covered by the sleeves of my baseball tee, and my cast is straining against the jeans I yanked over it. We’re on the boardwalk near the very end, where only a few people have ventured. The sun is hot despite the breeze blowing in, and on any other day I would be in shorts with my shirt off, enjoying the waves from the sand. But I’m not a dumbass, and the less recognizable I am if this comes back to haunt me, the better.
Still, I get close enough for Ezra to see my face, letting him take a good long look at the man who is about to ruin his fucking life.
“Brady?” he says, already dropping the Mr. and showing me some annoyance. His obvious flaws are pinpointed right there, because while he wants to appear suave and affable, while still in charge, he’s none of those things. He’s a tiny man, with a tiny dick, and a large need to prove himself. That much is obvious from the way he breathes in to puff up his chest; still, even with the rise of his shoulders from that move, he barely hits my chin.
“I lied.”
I give him one second to be confused by my response; one second to see my intent, and then I do my best to break his tiny dick. My first punch is an uppercut to the groin, one made more effective because I yank him forward by the shoulder, dragging him in to embrace the hit.
He staggers to his knees, coughing and gagging. I look around, note that we’re relatively alone, and grab the back of his collar, dragging him up so I can speak to him.
“You think it’s okay to put that anywhere you want, Ezra?” He shakes his head, the effort extraordinary from the look on his face. Pathetically, he hasn’t even tried to push away or fight back. He’s crumpled after one hit. “You think it’s okay to take from girls who aren’t willing, to use your tiny cock and gain pleasure from hurting them?”
His breathing is labored, and it’s not all because of the hit. This fucker is scared, and it’s music to my goddamned ears. He shakes his head again.
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Ezra.” I keep my voice neutral, just a parent scolding their cocksucking rapist son, but I reach down and squeeze his already-abused nuts, darkly pleased when his face turns an angry shade of purple. “It’s not okay, Ezra, and someone should have told you that a long time ago.”
My time is running out, so I make the next hits count. A one-two in his midsection, followed by another knee to the groin and rounded out with a hard elbow to the nose. He’s down for good, face planted in the sand while he gags and retches without even lifting his head. He looks like a boiled shrimp, curled in on himself.
I lean down close to his ear, half amused when he tries to cringe away. “If I ever—and I do meanever—hear anything, even if it’s just a fucking whisper, about how you put your hands on another woman without her consent, I’ll tear your dick off. And then, I’ll kill you.”
I spit on him, and turn and walk away in the opposite direction from where I came, pulling my brim lower and wishing I had been able to get in just one more hit. I think of Nala, and what he did to her, and I know, without a doubt, one more hit is never going to be enough.
