I beat the shit out of him.
It’s the easiest fight I’ve ever had.
He strikes out, of course. He lands a few clumsy, wayward hits. One to my throat, another to my already-swelling eye. That shit doesn’t even slow me down. The longer I kneel there over him, finally—fucking finally—burying my fist into his face, the hotter the thing inside me burns. It’s hungry and eager, exactly what was missing from the fight before. And every memory, every threat, every goddamn bit of hurt he’s inflicted on the people I love is like a steady source of gasoline, feeding it.
I could hear Ben and Carl egging me on before, but now they’re quiet, even as the crowd is losing their goddamn minds. I barely register how fucked-up Heston is looking—bloody and apoplectic—or how my knuckles have gone numb, or that I can barely see out of my right eye.
I don’t stop hitting him.
Not until Emory pulls me off. “Cops, dude. We have to bail. It’s done, Bass. It’s done!” My fists are still swinging, even when he’s yanking me back. It’s not until Reyn takes my other arm and drags me away with him that I finally let go. I keep my eyes on him, writhing on the ground, turning to his side to spit blood on the ground below. A sick surge of satisfaction rises within me at the sight, which is new and interesting. I’ve fought a lot of guys in my time, but winning has always just been something that came to me like a bare fact. I never got off on it. It never made me feel good to know I’d hurt someone, even when they were dicks.
Now, I do.
I feel it as I shake Reyn and Emory off, and then some more as we run toward Em’s truck, the crowd dispersing in much the same way. The park is filled with blue flashing lights so quickly that, for a moment, I begin worrying about another concussion. It’s not, though.
It’s just that two cruisers are that close, sirens blaring harshly in the silence of the park. We jump into the truck—closer than the Shelby—but even though Emory cranks the ignition, he doesn’t put it into gear.
“Oh, shit,” he says, leaning over the steering wheel. “Reyn, look.”
From the back seat, I crane forward to see why the fuck we aren’t peeling out of here. Four officers are surrounding Heston, probably because he’s beat to shit and sitting there, too gassed to flee.
It takes me too long to wonder why they’re putting him in cuffs, but no one else.
There are at least five other people dragging ass at running away. The cops don’t even spare them a glance. It’s almost like they didn’t come to break up the party.
It’s almost like…
“I told you,” Em mutters. And then, louder, turning to me with a shit-eating grin, “I fucking told you our girls were handling that fucker!”
Reyn’s razor-sharp smirk beams back at me. “Guess your dad didn’t bail him out, this time.”
I hope he can tell through my swollen eye that I’m looking at him like he’s a moron. “Not yet. He probably doesn’t even know about it.” My father is home right now, probably sitting in his office, sipping some scotch, completely unaware that he’s about to get a phone call.
The hurt still hasn’t come, all that adrenaline still pumping through me like fuel. Maybe that’s why Reyn’s words come floating back to me from before.
Be better.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking of them for the last couple days. Wondering what that would even mean. What it might look like. What it would take to get my father to give up his prodigal son for the sad specimen sitting right here.
I’ve been wondering what kind of sacrifices that might entail and if they’d be better or worse than a life spent dodging Heston’s bullshit.
I think I already know. “Em,” I say, falling back into the seat, eyes fixed to the roof of the car. “Could I ask a favor?”
I see his eyes flick to mine in the rearview. “This isn’t the hot nurse thing, is it? Are you concussed? Do you need to go to the ER? Goddamn it, Bass, I fucking told you—”
Breathing out a laugh, I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. I feel fine.” I meet the reflection of his eyes, voice feeling thick with exhaustion. “I’ll take a ride to my house, though.”
If I can get there before that phone call, maybe I won’t have to wonder anymore.
32
Sugar
Georgia finally falls asleep around two in the morning. She’s been a mess since she got back from the station, two hours ago. Aubrey’s in the bed with her, having passed out long before Georgia nodded off.
I’m lying in my own bed, watching the clock tick away. Since I’d slept all day, I’m completely fucking wired, although I suspect a part of it is because of what happened after leaving the exhibit tonight.
The whole thing was a tough sell to Sydney, who basically wanted fuck-all to do with anything that incriminated Heston. It kind of made me sick, knowing she was protecting him, even after all he’s put everyone through. Even when we told her about the video—even when she looked surprised to find it existed—she still swore up and down that she didn’t care. I’m not sure if the others could tell she was lying, but I sure as hell could.