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Without another word, I slip out of her apartment.
The roads are quiet as I drive. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, painting the dark asphalt in reflecting light. My fists are tight around the steering wheel, and I let the buzzing heat of anger inside me sizzle and grow until it feels like I’m on fire.
I don’t mentally acknowledge where I’m going, but deep down, I know.
When I reach the club, I park in the same exact spot I was in earlier. And I wait.
There are a handful of cars still parked in the lot, and I have a good view of the back of the club from here. I know a few things about Brett that I can count on for certain. He’s cocky, and he’s stupid. This means I know he’s going to walk out of here without security at some point, and I’ve got nothing but time.
While I wait, I don’t bother talking myself down or rethinking this situation. I let the simmer turn into a full boil. And I don’t have to wait as long as I thought I would. It’s nearly five in the morning when I spot him walking across the back of the lot behind the club with a young woman under his arm.
I jump out of my car and cross the asphalt in a fast-paced walk. He hears my footsteps first, turning toward me just as I find myself within punching distance.
“Hey, asshole,” I mutter before throwing a right hook that lands with a satisfying crunch against his nose.
The girl screams and runs away as Brett falls to the ground, holding his face as blood pours from his nostrils.
“What the fuck?” he bellows, but before he can try to get back to his feet, I grab him by the collar and jerk him upward to land another punch against his cheek.
“You think you’re fucking tough?” I grit out with a sneer as I hit him again. “Did you think you could hurt her? She came home in fucking tears, you piece of shit.”
I punch him again, and this time, he goes limp. My fist aches but not enough. I want to tear it open, crack my knuckles, and break the bones in my hand on his face.
Am I fighting fair? No, but I don’t care. I’m done with fair.
I just keep thinking about how scared she was. I think about her tears and her anger, and it makes every assault of my fist against his face feelso fucking good.
“Wake up, Brett,” I bark before shaking him again. His eye is already swelling shut, but as he slowly peels it open, I hit him again and again and again.
Everything starts to blur around me. Somewhere there’s a girl screaming and sirens in the distance. I can’t hold my hand in a fist anymore, so I drop his limp body on the pavement.
When I stand up, a sick and twisted feeling of satisfaction washes over me. As I stare down at him, hearing his moans and watching him struggle to move, I feel as if I’ve made a wrong thing right. Which is fucking juvenile, I know that, but I’m not doing this to be mature.
I’m still breathless, with a cold sweat running down my spine, when the night turns into a flash of red and blue around me.
When the police shout at me to put my hands in the air, I do it—with a smile.
Thirty-One
Adam
“Goode. Adam Goode,” a deep, unfamiliar voice calls. When I peel my eyes open, my head pounds with the assaulting bright light. And when my eyes finally adjust, I recognize my brother, Caleb, standing next to the officer who processed me sometime this morning after I was hauled in.
Caleb is wearing an expression that’s somewhere between smug and amused. His hands are in his pockets and he’s staring down his nose at me as I peel myself off the bench and move to stand. My broken hand is wrapped in medical gauze, and I remember the medic giving me strict instructions to have it looked at once I was released. But I probably won’t. I hope it leaves my hand fucked up and scarred forever. The pain feels good, like it’s the first thing I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
After I sign the papers clumsily with my left hand, I walk out of the station in silence with my brother at my side. He doesn’t say a word as we climb into his Volvo SUV, and I don’t bother complaining about my head or my hand. I just give him the address of the Laundromat and ask him to take me there instead of my apartment. With a quizzical expression, he does.
Maybe she’ll fix me up like she did before. And it makes me wonder if she’ll be mad or proud.
“I think I like this new version of you,” Caleb finally says as we pull up to a stoplight. “And I feel weird saying that, but causing a little trouble might actually be good for you.”
“Why am I the one causing trouble?” I ask, turning toward him.
“That’s a good question,” he replies with a laugh.
“No, Caleb. I mean…why have we been following that asshole our entire lives? Letting him treat us all like shit. Why am I theonlyone causing trouble?”
“So this is about Dad.”
