42. Scott
CHAPTER 42
Scott
I thought I was angry before, but seeing that arrogant, criminal piece of shit so much as look at my girl has my blood boiling so much I can barely stand still.
It took a minute to register who he was, which, as it turns out, is lucky for him, because I’d have beaten him to within an inch of his life right there on the street had I figured it out a fraction of a second sooner.
He looked familiar, one of the football players from UCR, but other than being a cocky prick, nothing else stood out about him until Athena froze like Elsa had waved her fingers at her.
If she hadn’t gripped my arm like she was about to crumple onto the ground, I’d have chased after him and done the world a fucking favor.
Apollo goes back to the car to grab his gym bag, he says he’s got an extra pair of sweats. I sweep Athena into my arms and rush her inside the therapist’s office. It doesn’t take us long to get her cleaned up and into fresh pants, but she’s shaking so hard, she’s crying and mumbling incoherently I’m not sure the therapist is going to get anywhere with her.
He guides us into his office even though we’re ten minutes early and haven’t completed the paperwork up front. He has us place Athena in a chair, but she doesn’t let go of mine or Apollo’s hands. She sits staring into the eyes of the stranger we’re hoping will help her through this trauma.
To be honest, I don’t know what he says to her. I have no idea how he calms her down and stops her tears because while I’m standing here holding the hand of the woman I love, I’m imagining flaying Brock’s skin with a knife. Or dumping his body in an ocean somewhere for the sealife to eat him.
I can’t find any level of calm, and from the way Apollo’s jaw is working, he can’t either.
Somehow, we all make it through thirty minutes of whatever the hell happened, and we’re being shown back out to make another appointment.
Athena’s still shaky as I guide her back to the car. Before he starts driving, Apollo pings the group chat with a message to say someone needs to message the lawyers about getting some kind of restraining order, or no contact order for both of the fuckers who hurt Athena.
She snuggles into my side for the silent ride back to her apartment, her body exhausted from the encounter in the street. I don’t blame her, I’m reeling from it too, but in a rip-his-head-off-his-body-with-gardening-shears kind of reeling.
Knowing Apollo as I do, I can tell he’s feeling every bit of the tension and murderous urges that I am. I can’t kill someone, no matter how much my current hurricane of emotions may tell me it’s a good idea. I need to abide by Athena’s wishes and not make things worse for her.
But fuck. All I want to do is get revenge for her. To make those sons of bitches hurt for what they did to my girlfriend, my best friend, the woman clinging to me in terror.
I can’t settle when we put Athena to bed for a nap. I can’t settle when Apollo tells the boys what happened. And I can’t get the image of her lying on the ground behind the library out of my mind.
“I’m going for a run.” I stand up from the couch, avoid eye contact with all three of my friends, and make my way to the door.
If they protest, I don’t hear it, but I take to the streets, pounding the concrete as I run faster and faster, harder and harder until my lungs burn with exertion.
As if carried by autopilot, or driven by some inner, hardwired bloodlust, I find myself on the same street as the football house, close to the hockey house. I’m easily identifiable, but I don’t give a shit. I’m going to tell these assholes to stay the fuck away from her or they’ll have my fists to answer to.
Fate seems to be smiling on me because as I approach the intersection, there’s Brock, shoveling a cheeseburger into his fucking face.
Well, asshole, my girl can’t eat much of anything right now because of you. He’s got his arm draped around a girl, which serves only to make my blood pound harder. How many other women has he hurt?
I flex my fists, ready to run past and not engage, but he sends his date into the house ahead of him while he checks his phone.
Huh. Curious.
The street’s pretty empty, it could be the perfect time to give him a piece of my fucking mind. Another fist-flex. I’ll keep it simple, short, sweet, just tell him if he sees her in the street to turn and walk the other way.
I won’t hit him. I’ll grit my teeth and let the lawyers handle it.
Running in his direction grabs his attention, and that sly smirk spreads across his face. He tilts his head as though he’s contemplating sticking his arm out to clothesline me, and part of me wishes with my whole fucking chest he would, just so I could beat the shit out of him, and it would legitimately be self-defense.
“Scottie. What can I do for you?”
I guess someone did his homework after he forced himself on my girlfriend.
“I’ve been expecting you’d want a little chat about that little tiff I had with your girl.” He snorts. “Misunderstanding.” He sweeps his hand like he’s brushing what happened under the carpet.
“You know how it goes. Some bitches just want what they can’t get at home.”
This fucker thinks he’s getting away with it.
I don’t know if this guy is a straight up psychopath or is suicidal, but my hand is curved into a fist and exploding into his body before he can suck in another breath.
When he doubles over on a gasp, I grab him by the back of his shirt and haul his ass between the houses.
If I’m seen, I’m seen.
This fucker’s getting taught a lesson.
I hate that I’m so unhinged, I hate that I’m thinking of harming another human being, I hate that my family’s inherent nature is rearing its ugly head inside my chest. But I keep rationalizing clocking this guy in the face.
Which I do twice.
If I do it, maybe it’ll save someone else from being hurt by his hand.
A knee to the face has him slumping onto the ground.
If I do it, it’ll save Ares getting in trouble, because we all know he’s got that murderous look on his face that isn’t going anywhere.
I stick my boot in his ribs.
If I do it, it’ll make us all feel better.
Another kick.
What if they don’t get sent to jail for what they did?
He curls into a ball, blood streaming from his nose and mouth.
Another kick, there’s a crunch, a groan, and I run.
And I don’t fucking stop.