Chapter 17
brANDON
Ispot her through the steamy window before I even enter Java the Hutt.
My heartbeat is suddenly a wild drum in my chest as I watch her, tucked away at her usual corner table, her black hair falling forward as she stares into her mug like it might contain the answers to questions I haven’t even asked yet.
I pause with my hand on the door handle, as I note every little detail. The way she absently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The slight furrow between her brows. The untouched pastry beside her coffee. All the familiar Tatum-isms that I’ve missed desperately for over a week.
If this is what little more than a week without Tatum in my life feels like, I don’t want to know what it’ll be like when she transfers schools—if she transfers.
I take a deep breath and push inside.
The little bell above the door announces my arrival with cheerful indifference, a contrast to the tension coiled inside me. A few heads turn, but not hers. She’s somewhere else mentally, and I hate to think of where—that it might be with Ethan, when what I really need is her right here with me.
I bend down and slide an arm around her shoulders in a half hug, breathing her in like an addict.
I hate to think what I would’ve done had she not agreed to meet me for coffee.
It feels like so much has happened since she fled my apartment, and all I want is to soak up her presence like sunshine, basking in her light.
“Hey,” I finally say, releasing her and sinking down into the chair opposite hers. “So, how’s your week been?”
She shrugs. “Good. Yours?”
Hell. This week has been pure hell.
“Are you avoiding me?” I blurt out and instantly wish I had a little more decorum. “I mean, I hope you’re not still freaked out about the last time we hung out. I swear—”
“It’s fine, Brandon,” she cuts me off. “Can we just forget it?”
I nod, staring at her for a moment as I try and assess what she’s thinking.
She’s wearing a silky blouse that brings out the purple in her eyes, jeans every bit as dark as the raven locks spilling over her shoulders, and a tentative smile.
But something’s changed since I last saw her—something subtle—and I’m not sure what.
I force a smile, pretending the distance in her voice and her eyes doesn’t bother me. “So, I heard from Brit that you went to meet Ethan’s parents last week. How’d that go?”
I hate myself for asking. I hate even more that I’m praying like hell she’ll say it was a disaster. That his mom hated her or his dad asked invasive questions. That she realized the whole time she’d rather be with me.
“It went really well, actually.” Her eyes light up for the first time since I sat down. “His mom made this amazing dinner. We talked about books and Christmas break. They were actually pretty great,” she says, and she sounds like the statement has surprised her.
“Oh.” The word falls from my lips like a stone as I nod and stare down at my coffee. “That’s . . . great.”
I wrap my hands around the mug, grateful for something to hold onto while my world tilts sideways. I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable with the weight of the truth burning in my throat, threatening to choke me if I don’t let it out.
Tatum tilts her head, concern flickering across her features. “You okay?”
I inhale and meet her eyes. Those eyes that have seen me through everything over the years. The ones that I picture every night in my dreams.
“No,” I admit, my voice barely audible over the coffee shop chatter. “I’m not, actually.”
She frowns. “What is it? Is it football?”
Football? She thinks I feel like I’m dying inside because of a fucking game?
It would be easy to let her think that. To push past this and carry on like we always have because I’m too damn afraid to lose her.
Because the truth is so much bigger than football. The truth is that everything is wrong because she’s sitting across from me talking about Ethan’s parents while I’m dying inside. Because by planning a future with him, she’s erasing mine.
Because newsflash—there is no universe that exists without Brandon and Tatum. Hard stop.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry. My heart pounds so hard I swear she must hear it. “I actually went to tell you Wednesday night after practice, but then I found out you were gone and . . .”
I swallow, raking a sweat-dampened hand through my hair.
Fuck, I’m nervous.
“Well, before I tell you, I need you to promise me you won’t hate me because the timing is terrible or freak out and disappear on me for another week. I need you to know I have the best of intentions. It’s just time you know.”
“Brandon, what is it?” she asks, a hint of frustration in her voice as the furrow between her brow deepens.
She reaches across the table and grabs my hands, and I nearly melt right there in a puddle across the table.
“Promise,” I demand.
“I promise.”
I glance down to our joined hands, focusing on the way her slender fingers fit in mine. Her touch is electric, sending warmth radiating up my arms and straight to my chest.
This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The words are right there, hovering on my lips, ready to change everything between us.
“Tatum, the truth is—”
The words die in my throat as my eyes catch something on her forearms. Her sleeves have ridden up slightly with the movement of reaching for my hands, revealing an odd pattern of discoloration on her skin.
My confession dies in my throat as I focus on what I’m seeing. Dark marks. Multiple dark marks.
My heart stutters to a halt before resuming at double speed, rage replacing nerves as I gently turn her arm for a better look. The bruises are fading to a sickly greenish-yellow, about a week old by the look of them, and I can make out the distinct pattern of fingerprints.
Without thinking, I slide my own fingers over the marks, a perfect match for someone’s grip. Someone who held her too tightly, who hurt her. Someone whose name is already burning in my mind.
“Brandon, it’s nothing,” she whispers, but I’m already seeing red.
She tugs her arms away from my inspection, crossing them protectively over her chest, her eyes darting around the coffee shop as if suddenly aware we’re in public.
“Who did this to you?” I ask, my voice dangerously quiet.
“No one. It was just—”
I scoff. “You expect me to believe you made those marks yourself?”
“No, but I . . .” Her eyes search mine, begging me to let this go.
Not a fucking chance in hell.
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Who. Did. This?”
Her throat bobs, and I can practically see her thinking—wondering whether she should tell me the truth or a lie.
“It was just a misunderstanding.”
“Not what I asked, Tate.” I grind my molars to dust, trying not to fucking lose my mind when I say, “It was Ethan, wasn’t it? On your little weeknight getaway?”
When she says nothing, I push my chair back so hard it falls to the ground with an ominous crack. “Fine. You don’t want to tell me, I’ll get my own answers.”
“No, Brandon, wait,” she says in a panic as I head for the door.
She rounds the table, close on my heels as she follows behind me. “What are you going to do?”
I stop so abruptly on the sidewalk outside that she nearly crashes into me. Whirling around, I face her with such sudden intensity that she flinches backward, eyes widening.
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” I snarl, my voice so low and dangerous, I barely recognize it as my own. My hands are trembling, not from fear but from the effort of restraining myself from punching the nearest wall. “You understand that, right? I’m going to find him and I’m going to end him.”
“It was an accident. He found out about the other weekend, and he was mad. Understandably. He’s not a violent person, and he would never hurt me.”
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 be okay with 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.
“Fuck!” He staggers backward, hands flying to his nose as blood streams between his fingers. A strangled sound comes from his lips before he manages a choked, “You broke my fucking nose.”
“That’s for Tatum,” I snarl, advancing on him. “This one’s for me.”
I rear back again, but arms wrap around my waist, yanking me backward before my fist can make contact a second time.
“Let me go!” I roar, thrashing against West’s iron grip while Damon steps between me and Ethan, who’s cowering with his back against the wall.
“You’re insane!” Ethan shouts, blood dripping onto his pristine white carpet. “I’m calling the cops!”
“Go ahead!” I spit, lunging forward only to be dragged back again. “Tell them why I’m here!”
Ethan says nothing as he brings his phone to his ear.
“You think this is over?” I yell at him, not giving a shit who’s on the other line. “Stay the fuck away from her!”
West and Damon push me back, but I twist violently in their grip, and my elbow connects with West’s ribs. “Let me go!”
He grunts but doesn’t loosen his hold.
“Stop fighting us,” Damon grinds out as Ethan’s neighbors begin peeking out their doors.
I fight them the whole way down the hall, kicking and thrashing like something feral. My vision is tunneled, focused only on getting back to Ethan’s door. On finishing what I started.
“He deserves worse than a broken nose,” I growl as they manhandle me.
“Settle the fuck down before you get yourself arrested,” Damon shouts as he opens the passenger side of my car and shoves me in it.
“He left bruises on her arms. He hurt her,” I snarl.
Damon freezes, his hand on the door. “For real?”
“I saw them for myself.” I nod toward the apartment. “Go on. Ask him.”
I’d love to see him fucking deny it.
“Shit,” Damon hisses, his expression torn as he glances at West.
“Should we let him go?” West asks.
Damon exhales, glancing around us as if contemplating before finally shaking his head. “No. He said he’s calling the cops, and I believe him. Let’s hope if we get Brandon the hell out of here and leave, he’ll drop it.”