Savage Hearts

Hopefully, before the sun starts to set, I’ll have what we need. I can’t imagine frat boys will wait much more than an hour between drinks, not when they’re on vacation and pounding beers is basically the sole reason for joining a frat in the first place.

I pause in the shade near the towel return, scanning the pool deck as I finish my drink. The frat boys are, as I suspected, easy to find.

About twenty pasty, recently graduated college kids with the beginnings of scorched shoulders are loudly holding court at the opposite end of the pool. Someone brought out speakers they’ve attached to one of their iPhones and they are thoughtlessly subjecting the rest of the guests to Bob Marley played loud enough to be heard over the waterfall feature streaming from the second floor of the resort.

I spot J.D. and Jeremy near the speakers, their nearly identical dark brown haircuts damp from the pool, laughing with a much bigger guy I don’t recognize. Todd has his back turned to me, but I’ve looked at his picture enough in the past year to memorize the exact fall of his stupid, Justin Bieber circa 2010 haircut from any angle. He’s in the pool, his arms draped back across the concrete behind him and a half-empty beer in one hand, talking to two girls in barely-there bikinis who have no idea the man they’re flirting with is a monster.

A part of me wants to wait until the women move away from Todd and warn them to stay the hell away from him, but I can’t afford to attract attention and there’s no guarantee they’d believe me. I’m four inches taller and a good fifty pounds heavier than Todd. On the surface, I’m probably more imposing and most people don’t stop to look below the surface, a fact I’m grateful for as I grab a towel from the attendant—who doesn’t even bother to write down the room number I mumble beneath my breath—and aim myself toward the other side of the pool.

I find a free lounge chair close enough to pick out the details of various conversations, but hopefully not close enough to get on anyone’s radar, and settle in. I spread out my towel, strip off my tee shirt, and stretch out on the chair with my phone in my lap and my head tilted down. I open a book in my Kindle app and pretend to be reading, but I’m really just swiping my thumb every few seconds and waiting for one of these bastards to order more beer.

While I wait, I try to zone out and not think too much about anything else I’m overhearing. If I listen too closely to these fucks going about their lives like they deserve to be free and soaking in a pool at a seven hundred dollar per night resort, I might lose control and strangle them right here.

It was clear from my first glimpse of the SBE brothers at the airport that none of Sam’s attackers are plagued by guilt over what they did. But seeing them in their element, acting like the world exists only to facilitate their pleasure, talking to the staff waiting on them like shit and leaving their empty cups littered across the pool deck instead of taking the five steps to the trash can, makes me sick to my stomach.

The coldest part of me wants to kill them all, wipe out the entire frat before any of these arrogant, careless, greedy trust fund babies can pass on their worthless genes to another generation.

But that’s the difference between someone like Todd and someone like me.

I don’t give my monster free reign.

My monster will only be allowed out of its cage for one night and only one life will be lost. His.

I glance up in time to see Todd lifting his hand to the waitress on the other side of the pool and to hear him insult the size of her ass when it takes her longer than he would prefer for her to make her way through the crowd. The two girls laugh at his joke and cast nasty looks at the other woman as she squats down beside the water to take Todd’s order, eyeing her perfectly healthy-sized backside like it’s an offense to their sense of decency.

I decide right then that they deserve Todd Winslow, after all.

“I’ll take another Corona and bring two mai tais for my friends.” Todd flicks his empty can in the waitress’s direction while she tries to write down his order and clean up his mess at the same time. “And make sure the drinks are cold this time. I’m not paying ten dollars for hot beer.”

“Thank you, sir,” the waitress says in a resigned voice that makes it clear she’s used to dealing with assholes like this on a daily basis. “Room number?”