“You don’t have to tell me.”
“They touched my leg. My scars. Scratched a recent graft.” His chest heaves, body shuddering as he cries. “They made fun of me, calling me gross and a freak as they did it.”
I want to hold him, to comfort him. But he can’t be touched. Not right now. So I sit there on the floor as he cries, wanting him to know I’m here.
After a few minutes, he looks up. Eyes rimmed red and swollen, with tear stains on his cheeks.
“What do you need?”
His gaze travels to my neck, and the tears start falling again. “I-I’m sorry.”
“What? Why the fuck are you apologizing?”
“Said I wouldn’t let him hurt you again. But he did. And I wasn’t there.”
“No. Don’t you fucking cry over that.” I shift onto my knees, reaching up and lifting his chin so he has to meet my eyes. “My father’s an asshole. That is not on you.”
He swallows and leans his forehead against mine. “I’m such a fucking mess.”
“It’s okay.” I kiss his forehead, my lips touching the faint scar there, then pull back a little. “Think I can try reading that rat-killing book?”
He snorts, shaking his head. But he gets up and walks to his desk. I follow. After he hands it to me, I jut my chin toward his bed. He gets in, lying on his side, but makes room for me.
I sit, leaning against the wall, and open the book. Not my kind of shit to read, just want him to know I’m here.
For him.
And I’m going to kill every last one of those fucks who touched him that day.
That’s a fucking promise.
Chapter 19
Connor
The clang of metal against metal echoes through the university gym as I slide a forty-five-pound plate onto the barbell, then another. The place is mostly empty, just a couple of soccer players on the treadmills and some guy doing curls who keeps grunting like he's giving birth.
Glad to be back doing something. Nieminen and Harper wouldn't allow me to practice for a week. Wanted me to take the time and heal, which pissed me the fuck off. So I tried to run on the treadmill. Got winded five minutes in, throat burning like I'd been breathing fire.
Hated those fuckers were right, hated I had to sit around and do nothing.
All because of my fucking piece of shit father.
Zach slides the collar into place with a sharp click. “Neck’s healing?”
I nod.
Bruises have faded, more greenish-yellow than purple, and my voice is back to normal. It still hurts a bit if I stretch it too far.
Zach adjusts to spot me. “Why’d he show up? He’s never come to a game before.”
“Merger's dead. Callahans found another deal.” I lay flat on the bench and grip the bar, the knurling biting into my palm. I lift it off the rack, bring it down to my chest, then push up.
One.
Two.
Three.
