The words hit me like physical blows. Each one. Her defense of him makes me sick.
“The other weekend?” My voice cracks. “You mean when I gave you a massage? He put his hands on you because of a fucking massage?”
People are staring now, but I couldn’t care less. All I can see are those fingerprints on her skin—evidence that someone thought they had the right to grab her, to mark her.
“It wasn’t just a massage, and you know it,” she hisses, glancing nervously at the small audience we’re attracting. “He just . . . he grabbed me a little too hard during an argument. He apologized right after.”
“Oh, he apologized,” I echo, the sarcasm dripping from my voice. “Well, that makes it all better then, doesn’t it?”
“I swear to God, Brandon, if you do anything . . .”
My eyes widen as she trails off, her eyes hardening with anger.
Is she really . . . Is she giving me an ultimatum?
“If I do anything, you’ll what?”
She shakes her head, glancing away from me, her mouth pinched.
“You expect me to do nothing? To just beokaywith this?”
“I expect you to be my friend and respect my wishes,” she says, meeting my eyes again.
I choke out a laugh, knowing this might be my undoing but not giving a damn. “Not a fucking chance in hell.”
I stalk away from Tatum, leaving her standing on the sidewalk with her mouth open. Her voice calls after me, but I don’t turn back. I can’t. The rage is a living beast inside me, clawing at my insides, demanding release.
I walk back to my apartment on autopilot, knuckles white as I clench my hands into fists. Every step feels like an eternity while my mind replays those bruises on her skin, the way she defended him. The fucking audacity of that bastard to put his hands on her and then make her believe it was somehow justified.
By the time I reach my apartment complex, I’ve made my decision.
This isn’t a conversation that needs to happen over the phone. This is the kind of thing that requires face-to-face communication. Preferably with my fist.
I waste no time as I head straight for my Bronco. My hands are shaking so badly, I can barely get the right key in the ignition as I slide behind the wheel at the same time West and Damon pull in beside me, a takeout pizza in West’s hands.
“Where you headed?” he asks, tapping on my window.
I meet West’s calm gaze, but it does nothing to calm me as the full force of my fury courses through my veins. “To put my fucking fist through Ethan’s face.”
I crank the engine, watching as their eyes widen.
“Oh shit,” he mutters, before Damon yells, “Get back in the car!”
Sixty-three minutes later, my anger is a living, breathing monster inside me as I pull up to a sleek high-rise just off Michigan State’s campus. I’d texted a Griffins’ fan who works in the registrar’s office—one of the perks of being the star cornerback—and within twenty minutes had Ethan’s address.
My phone pings as I turn off the ignition, and I check the screen to find one of nearly a dozen texts from Damon and West.
DAMON:
Brandon, think this through, man.
I ignore it as I step out of the car, just like I ignore them as they pull in behind me, because nothing is going to stop me from tearing Ethan fucking White limb from limb.
I’m already striding toward the entrance, deaf to anything but the blood roaring in my ears as I head to the third floor where I pound on door 305 with enough force to rattle the hinges. The door swings open, and there stands Ethan in designer jeans and a smirk that makes my blood boil.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe like this is a casual social call.
I don’t waste breath on words. My fist connects with his face in a satisfying crunch before he can even blink.
