My locker room thing was just to mess with her.

She’d told him time after time to stop.

I’d seen her cry, wanting me to stop.

And the more I hit Nate, the more I didn’t see his face anymore, but my own. “Stop.” I heard Tate yell behind me. “Jared, stop!”

I didn’t want to stop until he was done breathing, but I was getting Tate the hell out of here. Now.

I yanked Nate by the bend of his elbow and threw him to the ground. “This isn’t over,” I promised, not feeling the slightest bit guilty about his bloodied eye, nose, and mouth. Blood lined the inside of his lips, and he lay crumpled on the ground, panting and groaning.

I looked over to Tate, whose eyes looked scared and chest rose and fell in fear. A fear she didn’t have when I first found her here.

“I’m taking you home.” It wasn’t open for discussion.

“No thanks. I have a ride,” she argued, tipping her chin up. She has a ride? I wanted to laugh and growl at the same time. God, I was going to enjoy shutting her up.

“Your ride,” I turned to look at her, “is drunk. Now, unless you’d like to wake up your poor

grandmother to come out into the middle of nowhere to get you after your date gets drunk, and you almost get raped—which I’m sure will do wonders for your father trusting you to be alone, by the way—then you’ll get in the goddamn car, Tate.”

I turned to walk towards my car, fully prepared to throw her over my shoulder if I had to.

“What’s your problem?” she blurted out as soon as we were racing down the highway, headed back to town.

“My problem?” I was pissed, and she could tell. “You come to the bonfire with that idiot Ben Jamison, who can’t stay sober enough to drive you home, and then you traipse off into the woods, in the dark, and get groped by Dietrich. Maybe you’re the one with the problem.”

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 571