“Who the fuck let him in?” my father thunders, starting up the incline of the back lawn.
It is Seb.
Now he’s closer I can tell for sure.
He strides towards me, an oak bat in one hand, a red and white ball in the other. Looking for all the world like he’s strolling into a party to convince us all it’s not too late for a spot of backyard cricket.
“Hey, honey,” he says, pulling alongside me, swapping me the ball as he takes the broken piece of glass from my hand.
His finger touches to the pinprick on my cheek, raising the crimson drop to his mouth and sucking his finger clean.
“You promised you’d come to me if you needed to cut.”
The growly whisper sets off a cascade of sparks in my lower belly. I can’t look away from his mouth, his lips, the tease of his tongue. I reach out to touch him, to reassure myself he’s really here, that it’s not just some last-ditch effort by my belaboured brain to chart an escape route out of my planned descent.
His arm feels very real. I poke him in the chest, and he wrinkles his nose at me, sending a cascade of warmth through my frozen joints. Then my eyes move past his shoulder, to where Allain is glaring at his back. A blast of icy terror hits me.
I know after I pushed to go to Kingswood, Allain visited Seb with two of his men, to frighten him. This bold taunt will hardly go unpunished.
My fear of authority resurfaces with a jolt. “You can’t be here.”
He grimaces while his eyes dance with delight. “Oopsy. My mistake. But this weird, perverted man extended me an invitation.” He spins in a semi-circle, checking the wary faces of the assembled guests, then alighting on Maxwell. “There he is.”
“I’m calling security,” Allain says, pulling out his phone.
Seb widens his eyes at me, barely able to suppress his grin. He bends down to briefly rest his forehead against mine, to brush my lips with his, before he straightens. “Just got to do one thing real quick.”
I nod, once again unsure if this is happening or if I’m caught in a vivid hallucination.
He strides across to Maxwell, nodding to him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, boy?”
Seb hefts the bat in his hand, positioning his hands so they’re both holding tightly onto the grip, then he swings it around, putting his shoulder into it, smashing it straight into Maxwell’s face.
Marnie screams and tries to run, her high heels catching in the soft lawn. Allain stares at his mobile in disgust, backing away from the scene as he disconnects the call and tries another.
The other guests freeze, unsure what they should be doing.
A fierce thrill swamps me, sensations coursing from head to toe. I clap my hands and laugh, victory surging through me.
Oh, this is so much better than anything I had planned.
Seb calls out, “Did I ever tell you I was sorry?”
“Sorry for what?” I call back, eagerly stepping into his dance, this ending far more enjoyable than the one I’d scripted.
Maxwell struggles to his knees, one hand cupped to his ear, blood flowing down that side of his face. The other planted on the ground, the only way he’s keeping his balance.
“I’m sorry that you wasted money on a suit so I could dress up to be polite for this massive shit.”
He swings the bat again, catching Maxwell on his supporting arm this time, the elbow popping out of joint with an audible crack. The man bellows.
“Not my money,” I helpfully call back. “But I guess I’ll still accept your apology.”
“Right. Well, I’ll try another one. I’m sorry that I called you a freak and told everyone in class that you’d shagged fat Henry.”
“You should be,” I lob right back. “You know you’re not meant to call people fat.”
