Number 39 doesn’t flinch.
“Dad! Stop!” I scream, terrified of what’s about to happen.
My dad clenches his fists. He stops right in front of the guy’s face. I only see the back of his head, but I hear him say, “Mind your own fucking business, kid.”
I grab my dad’s shoulder. “Stop. Stop, let’s go. Come on.”
Number 39 looks down at me, sees my bleeding mouth, and looks back to my dad. “He’s not bleeding yet.” Then he clenches his teeth and aims his fist to throw another punch.
I grab number 39 by the chest and push him back.
“Stop,” I say, mortified. My heart’s racing in every direction. This man is tall, way taller than my dad. And wide. He’s massive this close.
Number 39 clenches his jaw, staring at my dad over my head. I notice now that he has a split lip that’s oozing.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, and that catches his attention. He looks down at me, his eyes dark like the night sky.
“You are too,” he says as a drop of his blood lands on my lips.
I flutter my eyes, trying to process what’s happening. I stare blankly at him as he looks down at my face, searching. “Is this man your boyfriend?” he seethes.
“What?” I say just as my dad yanks me away from him and forces me to walk in the direction of the car.
He points at number 39 and says, “Fuck you, motherfucker! You’re gonna fucking pay for this.”
My dad throws me in the backseat of the Honda Pilot, and I’m reeling. My heart’s racing in my ribs. My breath is shallow.Zinnia looks straight out the windshield, not acknowledging the situation. Maybe that’s for the best.
I turn my head to look at number 39 before we pull away. I can’t believe he thought a man at my dad’s age would be my boyfriend. I blink a few times, trying to process what just happened. I touch my split lip where his blood dripped. Number 39 stares at my dad through the windshield. And then he looks at me in the backseat. His expression softens lightly, and my chest aches in a way it’s never have before.
“You’re going to break up with that boy.”
I whip my head around so fast that I fall into the door as the car takes a sharp left turn. I quickly put on my seatbelt and admit, “I don’t even know who that was.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Tigerlily,” he snarls into the rearview mirror.
I wipe the blood from my lip, knowing that some of it is his. Number 39. I’ve never seen him before. I don’t know who he is. But a piece of me is glad that he was there to witness my dad in action. Sometimes I truly think I’m in the wrong, that I deserve to be hit. After all, I did lie to him about where I was tonight. I can’t believe I forgot that he has my phone’s location. Stupid, stupid girl. What a dumb mistake.
I hold onto my seatbelt, staring out the window.
For the first time in my life, someone stood up for me.
Chapter Two: Jax
7KDL921.
California plates. Black Honda Pilot. The dealership frame says Costa Mesa Honda, but I can barely make it out from here, taillights already swallowing into the dark.
7KDL921.
I’m burning it into my head.
My hand’s throbbing. Blood on my knuckles, some of it dried, some of it fresh from where the skin split when I hit the old man. My face hurts worse—that’s from the game, from Theo’s elbow to my jaw. But my hand, that’s from her dad.
And I’m still pissed.
Not the kind of pissed that fades when you take a breath. The kind that sits in your chest like a hot coal, the kind that makes your teeth clench and your vision narrow and your whole body vibrate.
I want to get in my car and follow them. I want to drag him out of that Honda and break every bone in his hand so he can’t grab her like that again.
