His nostrils flared, a splotchy-red flooding his face. “Not Leah, dumbass. Monroe.”
A shred of shock rippled through me, muscles going rigid. And Max must have seen it because his lips quirked. I balled my fist, ready to land a punch on his face, but froze when Jacobs and two other police officers strolled in. Jacobs stopped a few feet away, and Harford acknowledged the shithead with a wave.
The second Jacobs stepped out of earshot, Harford inched closer. I couldn’t throw a punch with Jacobs’ in here, and Harford knew it.
“Oh, what? Hurt your feelings that your white-trash slut wants a little taste of money?”
Anger rattled through me like a volcanic eruption, my fists begging to collide with the side of his face.
“The thing is, Hunt. She was completely worthless to me, just a way to get off. At least until I realized she was supposed to be yours. Now, every time you kiss her, you're sucking on my dick.”
The word worthless played on a loop until my chest grew tight enough that I struggled for a decent breath.
“Don’t do it, Zepp,” Bellamy’s voice broke through the enraged trance I was spiraling down. “Jacobs’ will haul your ass outta here.”
“I swear to God, Harford.” Jaw tensed, I moved closer, bringing our face centimeters apart. “Let me see you out in public, and I will kill you.”
I caught the way he flinched, the flicker of worry that flashed through his eyes before he quickly masked it.
“Zepp…” There was a warning in Bellamy’s tone. I took a step back, and Jacobs was watching.
Harford glanced around the table, snagging a hash brown from Hendrix’s tray. “Fuck you, Hunt. And your trashy whore.” Harford started off, and Hendrix kicked at his shin. Max tumbled forward, then face planted the grimy floor. On a growl, he shoved to his feet, dusting bits of food from his jeans.
Jacobs stepped between us. “There a problem here?” He looked at Max and the Barrington guys, ignoring us.
“No, sir. Just talking about the game in a few weeks.”
Jacobs patted Max on the back. “With you playing, you guys have got the championship in the bag.”
Max flashed us a fake-ass smile. “See you guys around.” Then he and his crew went back to their table like the privileged little shits they were.
Jacobs shuffled a little closer to our booth, looping his thumbs through the belt loops on his uniform. “One screw-up from you kids, and I swear, I’ll have you in juvie faster than you can wipe your poor ass.” He gave a final glare to my brother before moving back to the counter and grabbing his order.
Wolf grabbed a piece of chicken and chucked it at Hendrix’s forehead. “Just had to go stick your dick in the police officer’s daughter, didn’t you? You dick. Like we need any more heat on us.”
Hendrix lobbed some ice back across the table. “Shut up, man. She had big titties.”
They kept arguing, and my blood pressure continued to spike. I had never wanted to throw my fist into someone’s face as bad as I did Harford’s, and the longer I sat in the same restaurant as him, the harder that urge was to ignore.
I was still pissed when we got to school. I didn’t think I could let that little encounter with Harford slide. By the time I got into my first class, I was agitated enough that I needed a cigarette. I made it fifteen minutes into some dumb lecture about the Industrial Revolution before I got up to take a piss—and have a cigarette.
I rounded the corner to the bathroom, wading through the thick cloud of smoke filling the small room. Whatever cheap weed that guy was smoking smelled like shit. I unfastened my fly and stood at the urinal, shaking it off when the guy behind the closed stall door said, “Nice panties.”
Smoking weed and fucking? Not a bad combination. I moved to the sink, then heard Monroe tell the guy to stop looking.
An unsettled feeling took root in my gut. Harford. Now some other dickhead at Dayton? Without thought, I kicked the door off its hinges, sending it crashing against the metal divider.
Monroe screamed, and I expected her to be bent over with some guy behind her, but she wasn’t. Instead, she sat perched on the edge of the toilet seat, one leg crossed over the other, while she clutched her chest.
One of the football players stood, plastered against the other divider, joint in hand, his wide eyes glazed. “What the hell, Hunt?” He made a small step forward, and I tilted my head, inviting whatever he wanted to bring.
After that morning, I was ready for a brawl. But then, he froze, his bravery evidently short-lived.
“It’s fine, Chase.” Monroe stood, giving a dismissive wave toward the door. “Just go.”
His gaze pinged between Monroe and me.
“He won’t hurt me,” Monroe assured him.
He stubbed out the joint on the divider wall, eyes locked on mine when he shifted past me.
“If you were hoping for a quickie, I’m good,” she said.
The restroom door shut behind Chase, and I pressed Monroe against the divider until the metal corners creaked. Anger morphed to lust. A magic trick only her warm body against mine could pull off. “Seemed pretty into it yesterday.”
“I’m a good performer.”
As hard as her fake moans had me, I could only imagine what the real ones would do. “Oh, I bet you are.” I traced my finger over the collar of the turtleneck she wore, moving my mouth closer to her neck. “You know what else I bet? That you’re gonna look so good when I make you come.”
She went tense.
“Three months,” I said. I inched the neck of her sweater down. “Try not to give in to me.” An ugly, green bruise peeked out from the collar of her shirt, and my stomach bottomed out. I yanked the fabric down farther, and she fought to tug it back up.
“Take your shirt off.”
“No.” Her jaw tightened. “I’m not screwing you.”
But we both knew that wasn’t why I wanted her shirt off. If I had to bet, there were more bruises on her. Leah’s text popped to mind, followed by Max’s smartass grin. I grabbed her sweater, so focused on her that I didn’t catch her hand rear back until I felt the sting on my cheek. Gritting my teeth, I fisted the material and pressed my nose to hers. “Take. It. Off.”
Her arms came over her chest. A hateful glare danced in her eyes, but I could see something else underneath it she was fighting.
My blood boiled, sizzled, and popped through my veins like an angry hit of heroin. “Take off the goddamn shirt. Before I tear it off of you.”
“Just leave it, Zepp.” Her shoulders fell, like a little of the fight had left her.
Part of me knew I should leave it alone, that there were some parts of our lives meant to stay in the darkness, but I wanted to prove myself wrong. I wanted to find nothing underneath that shirt but pale skin. Balling the material in my fist, I slowly lifted it past her navel to her ribs, revealing a smattering of ugly, fading bruises. For a moment, all I could see was my mother. All I could hear were the lies she told to cover up the abuse. As shit as our lives were, this was the part of it I refused to accept.
“Who?” I said through gritted teeth. “The fucking Barrington quarterback?”
She tugged the sweater from my hand, hiding the marks from my view. “No. Just let it go.” Her gaze met mine, hard and unreadable. “You know how this shit works. We’re just surviving, right?” An undercurrent of defeat hid within her sarcastic tone. And the shittiest thing about that statement—she was right.