5. Dutton #2
“What did you say to her?” I ask, my voice low and lethal as I apply more pressure.
“Get your damn hands off me,” he grounds out.
“No,” I reply. “Now tell me what the hell you said to her.”
“Who the hell are you talking about?” He pushes back against me, so I return the favor, forcing him to step back closer to the wall.
He’s not a small guy, but I’ve got the advantage of both surprise and anger.
Plus, it’s a known fact that small-minded dickheads are the weakest fuckers on the planet.
“Talked shit on a lot of women lately?” I ask, curling my left hand into a fist. “Let me refresh your memory. On second thought, no. I don’t feel like talking anymore.” Drawing my shoulder back, I launch my arm forward, but it never connects with his face.
What the hell?
Mickey’s bear-hugging me from behind, effectively stopping me from teaching this asshat a lesson about keeping his mouth shut. “Get the fuck off me,” I snarl at my teammate.
“Then calm the fuck down,” Mickey says, getting right in my face.
Oh, the irony. The guy who can’t stand still for more than ten seconds is telling me to calm down? The nutjob who fucking bounces around the house like he’s got pogo sticks for legs wants me to chill out? I don’t fucking think so, but I’ll deal with his ass after I kick Lanza’s.
“Let me go right this fucking second or I’ll break your arm before I break his face,” I toss back, but ot’s no damn use.
Deano left his post at the bar to haul Lanza out of here.
Blood and adrenaline are pumping through my body, and I’m damn near vibrating with anger.
“Ollie,” I say, dismissing Mickey with a glare and going straight to the guy leading the team.
“Give me two minutes with that dickhead. There was a wo?—”
I never finish my sentence, though, because I’m interrupted by the moan of the mechanical bull Ollie rented.
I thought that thing died a painful death when Dean poured a cocktail down its non-existent throat and fried its circuits.
Blue must have healing powers, though, because when he saddled the beast, it started to wail.
We all watch in horror as it picks up speed and bucks Blue into the crowd.
He lands with a thud on the end of the sofa, but the way he’s groaning tells me that brief ride did him in.
By my calculations, I’ve got maybe thirty seconds until he?—.
Fuck.
The first thing I hear is the crash of the bottle of Jack he was holding. It shatters the instant it hits the floor. The second sound is the all too familiar refrain of my best buddy losing his lunch.
The guy’s a puker. He always has been. A few too many beers or a gory scene in a horror film, and the result is the same.
People scatter, and I can’t blame them, but I’m sure as hell not leaving his side. I’ll have to deal with Lanza later because it looks like I’m on babysitting duty the rest of the night.
The sun peeks through my blinds way too fucking early.
I’d swear it’s three a.m. even though my phone says it’s after ten.
I’ve usually been to the gym and back by now, but I stayed up until the wee hours making sure Blue didn’t choke on his own vomit.
Finally satisfied that he’d gotten everything out of his system, I crashed a couple hours ago.
I need to get moving, but I also need coffee, so after I throw on some clean shorts and a t-shirt, I grab my bag and my running shoes and head for the door.
I hear muffled voices in the kitchen, but the only person I feel like talking to is sleeping off a bender upstairs.
I’m still pissed that Ollie and Mickey held me back from pummeling Lanza’s face.
As my feet hit the pavement, I try my best to let that anger go.
Don’t worry, I’m not developing a soft spot for my new teammates.
I’m just conserving my energy for Lanza.
That guy needs payback for his shitty behavior, and I’m more than happy to dole it out.
I don’t even need to use my fists. Once Blue sobers up, I’ll tap him for ideas.
Being besties with the king of all pranksters has its perks.
It takes no time at all to jog to Drip and I down my coffee in record time before making my way to the Wolf’s Den for a workout.
I’m halfway there when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I’m tempted to ignore it because it’s probably a spam call, or it’s a reminder of some other important meeting I’ve forgotten.
But when I take a look at the caller ID, I pick up immediately.
Yes, I’m an antisocial asshole.
Yes, I’m a grump.
And yes, I’m in a shitty mood.
But I’m not an idiot.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, glad I thought to check my phone instead of letting it go to voicemail.
“Hi, honey, do you have a minute?”
Her tone is casual, but something about it has me on high alert. “Always. What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing, I just wanted to hear about your first few days. Are you and Blue getting acclimated?”
“Yeah, we’re doing fine,” I tell her. When I was home last weekend, she peppered me with questions about my house and my teammates.
Since it was literally my first day on campus, I had very few answers.
I’m betting she wants a full report now that I’ve been here a while.
She’s probably calling to invite Blue and me for a home-cooked meal and some good old-fashioned interrogation.
Dad and I are cut from the same cloth. We’re quiet, stoic.
Some might even say surly. My mom, though?
She’s one of those weird people who actually likes other people.
Freaky, I know.
“Good, that’s good,” she says, sounding a little distracted.
I’ve reached the edge of campus, and my new place is only a hundred yards away, but I slow my pace.
“Is everything okay?” I don’t think much could have changed in five days, but I didn’t see much of my dad when I visited.
He can’t shake the concussion symptoms, so he’s been resting a lot, and even when he sat down to dinner with us, he was pretty quiet.
“Of course,” she says a little too quickly.
I stay quiet, knowing that silence is her downfall. It only takes about three seconds for her to crack.
“Nothing is wrong,” she assures me, “but your dad fell while he was in the shower this morning. He’s fine.
There’s barely a bruise on him, but his balance hasn’t been right since the car wreck.
We were supposed to see the doctor next week for his follow-up visit, but I called and got lucky.
They’re fitting us in tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. ”
Her words come out in a rush, and I can tell she’s rattled. It’s no surprise. My dad’s in his mid-fifties, but he’s a gym rat, and he eats well, and the fact that he hasn’t bounced back from the accident yet has us worried.
“It’s at the medical center on Providence Rd, right? I’ll meet you guys there, unless you want me to come to the house first?” I ask.
“Oh, no, it’s fine. I can give you an update when we’re done. I don’t want you to miss class or workouts.”
“It’s fine, Mom. I’m done at noon on Mondays, so I’ll be there by twelve-thirty, and I’ll get back to campus in plenty of time for practice.”
“That would be wonderful, actually, if you’re sure. That way we can both listen to what the doctor has to say and compare notes after. They threw so much information at me last time, and I felt a little overwhelmed.”
“We got this, Mom,” I assure her before hanging up.
I know she’s worried, and I get it, but balance can be a long-term issue after a concussion.
Still, it’s got to be scary when your partner of twenty-five years takes a fall.
I have complete faith my dad will bounce back from this, but it’s probably a good idea to get him seen by a doc, and I know my mom’s been stressed lately, so I’m glad I can go along.
When I go to tap the time and date into my phone, though, I realize that my dad’s appointment is at the same time as the business seminar I’m scheduled to attend.
I don’t even hesitate to delete that event and replace it with Dad’s doctor visit.
School is important, but if my folks need me, there’s nowhere else I’m going to be.
Besides, I’m missing one seminar. It can’t be that big of a deal.