I walk casually to the bookshelf, picking up a paperweight, testing it in my hand. “Look at your teenage step-daughter’s tits often, Doug?”
He grins, looking pleased with himself. “Well, I do have eyes.”
I tilt my head to him, wondering in a voice that I don’t even recognize, “Is that before or after you put those scars on her back?”
His eyebrows rise. “You’ve seen my work, eh? So I was right. You are fucking her.” He sets his empty glass aside, planting both feet on the floor. “I always did figure she’d become a slut, but a whore? Can’t be putting much of a dent in your bank account, can she?”
His hand whips out to catch the paperweight when I throw it. I was aiming right for the middle of his forehead, but he snatches it out of the air, lightning quick, barking a laugh.
“Catcher,” he reminds me, “but I respect the effort.”
I shrug, because this isn’t about landing a blow. Not yet. It’s almost a relief, slipping back into
this headspace. Weighing up my opponent. Calculating. Stoking the fire. There’s chaos here—there always is—but there’s also a sense of order to it. A routine. It takes this stuck throttle and points it somewhere safe. Somewhere it’s deserved. “I’m just curious. Do you beat your wife too, or is it just defenseless girls a third your size?”
At least his movements grow a little less controlled when he bangs the paperweight onto the table beside his glass. He was clearly expecting a different reaction. “I don’t break what’s mine.”
“You realize how little that’s worth,” I point out, observing him closely. His knee wobbles when he pushes himself to his feet, straightening his back slowly enough to be useful.
“You think I care what you think?” He holds out his arms wide in a mockery of welcome. “Take a shot, boy.”
“Bass?” Sugar’s small voice rings out in the doorway, but I don’t move. I barely even blink, holding Doug’s gaze as my blood pumps frantically. “What’s going on?”
“We were just having a friendly chat.” It’s Doug who answers. “Man to man.”
Sugar must sense the tension between us—it can’t be even remotely subtle—because suddenly she’s in front of me, palms flat on my chest, whispering, “Please don’t.”
I’d move her out of the way if I could touch her. But I can’t. It’s because of the piece of shit standing right there, six feet away. I jerk my head to the side, cracking my stiff neck. “Sugar, go.”
“No,” she says, voice urgent, hands sliding up to my neck. “You said you’d try.”
“I did try.”
“Please,” she begs, tugging. “There are people here, and—”
Doug cuts in, “Wouldn’t want to embarrass us, Preppy Boy. Sugar did that enough, running away like the lazy coward she is. Not even gracious enough to speak at your own father’s memorial.” He’s got an issue with keeping his eye on his prize, already breaking my gaze to spit at her, “You realize your mother does all this for you. She carries on with this whole dog and pony show, year after year, because she feels guilty about you losing your dad.” Uncaring of the hot glare Sugar throws him, he stalks forward, pushing his sleeves up, making my hackles raise even further. “Which is bullshit. Who provided your skinny, ungrateful ass with food? A roof over your head? Clothes? And you took it for granted. What did your dad ever give you, anyway? Shitty genes and a piece of shit car. But let’s honor him like a saint every year, why don’t we.”
Sugar lets go of me, whipping around to sneer at him. “Mom’s the one who wants to honor dad. You’re the one who’s embarrassed because it may mean that you’re not the center of attention for one godforsaken moment!”
His eyes flash in anger, even as he goes still. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me,” she says, voice tough as nails, even though she’s trembling—with fear or with anger. She bites out, “You’re jealous. Of a fucking ghost. Of a little girl. Of anything you can’t own. Because you’re a small, petty, pathetic excuse for a man—never mind a father.”
I’m so busy appreciating that fire in her eyes—her ruthless snarl—that I catch what’s happening just a beat too late.
Doug’s palm meets her face with a sharp crack, sending her stumbling back, right into my chest. I catch her, but it’s only a split moment before I finally—fucking finally—bolt forward.
The first punch is easy, even though he should see it coming. My knuckles meet his cheek, sending his head whipping to the side. He’s quick to recover, but Doug’s right-handed—which I know from the catch before—so I duck out of the way before his responding punch can land.
My heel meets his knee hard enough that he actually cries out, a high-pitched snarl that’s sure to have gotten everyone’s attention. He buckles, going down on one knee, head flying back when mine crashes into his face.
It’s all a blur once I get on him, fist flying back and jerking forward. Maybe he gets one or two hits in—one to my jaw, another to my kidney—but all I see is red. Some of it’s this roaring, crazy explosion inside of me, but some of it’s his blood. My knuckles go numb as I hurl my fist forward, again and again. Only distantly, I can hear Sugar screaming at me to stop, but it’s muddled, like it’s happening underwater.
Doug gets his legs under him long enough to get me on the ground, but all I can see is that look on his face when he slapped Sugar.
Sugar, who looks so small here, in this wretched fucking house.
Sugar, who I promised to protect.