by Leanne Davis
Chapter 6
WYATT
It’s impossible not to notice her. Jacey Walker is a sensual, beautiful woman, and half the team eyes her when I introduce her. She’s dressed in all black, which accentuates her large breasts as well as her small waist. I can only admire her classic hourglass figure. She’s sexy as hell, and I often fight the urge to rest my hand at the small of her back. She’s drinking, throwing her head back as she laughs. Her long throat is exposed, so slender and swanlike. I blink. What the hell is my problem? I’m noticing her damn throat? It’s good to see Jacey having fun. I know what prompted her to follow Wesley to Silver Springs was ugly. Maybe that’s why I notice her throat now. It nauseates me to picture anyone who is bigger and stronger than her squeezing his hands around her graceful neck.
Unconsciously I start flexing my fists. That always happens every time I imagine the reason Jacey came here. She was strangled by her boyfriend. The snippets of her depressing life that I’ve gleaned from her talks with Wesley suggest that a boyfriend was her only option as far as finding shelter was concerned.
And Wesley and my parents are her best option now. And maybe me. Maybe I’ve got something for her. I’m slouched near the kitchen table reviewing the highlights of my awesomeness when the conversation falls on the game in general. Later, it drifts on to lighter bullshit. My thoughts drift with it. My gaze wanders around the room. I don’t drink much. I never did. One can’t work as hard as I do in school and on the field and be a lush. Or get caught doing that shit. So I’m always very careful.
Jacey, however, likes to drink hard. I count number four in her hand as she takes the center position inside a three-man circle. I don’t know my role with her. Brotherly as Wesley seems to be? But would Wesley care if she flittered about, giving obvious green signals to all three guys she’s currently with?
I don’t think Wesley’s role with her is that of a brother. I think he’s supportive of whatever she wants to do. But wasn’t it her choice to live with a man who strangled her? Maybe Jacey’s judgment is super shitty, and someone should be monitoring her movements and determining which actions are best for her.
Of course, there’s no one around but me now. I shift my feet, unsure of my analysis. I never had to do anything like that with Dani. Hell, is that the draw to Jacey? That she’s different? A needy mess of a girl after being with the most self-sufficient person I’ve ever met for over two years? Did I now want to become Jacey’s savior? Was it a God-complex gone wrong?
Or did I just like Jacey and not want her to regret anything I might have brought to her? Maybe it’s because of my stubborn sense of responsibility, and damn it to hell, the way my dad taught me to treat women. He insists on politeness, respect, and extra care. Not as if they were helpless and unable to do things for themselves, but just the old-fashioned stuff. I learned to open doors, stand up when a woman enters a room, sit down only after she does, and say lots of pleases and thank yous. I was told to treat them with care and affection and to always protect them.
I’m looking out for Jacey, because biologically, she is weaker than any of the guys there. That’s it. That’s the only reason. That’s my only stake in whatever she chooses to do with herself. I’ll ignore her doing whatever she wants but will still watch her back in case she needs any assistance.
With that decision made, I start to relax and chat with the guys around me. I keep Jacey in my sights but quit stressing at each flirt or touch of her arm by another guy. She’s heavily flirting and encouraging it. And then…everything changes. My focus drops from Jacey and her drinking and flirting.
In walks someone I never expect to see. Not here.
Fuck! My hands start to sweat, and my mind goes hazy. I can’t think. My nostrils flare, and my heart races. It’s only one of them, but oh, fuck. He stops dead when his gaze lands on me, staring with no reaction. Then he looks away. It’s there, and then it’s gone. He turns away and slaps the shoulder of one of the fraternity guys. He belongs here. He’s one of them. I didn’t know before. I should have checked it out. But here I am. Inside their house. At their party. I’ve no doubt he knows exactly who I am. I let him get away with… fuck. No. I vowed never to think about it.
I grip my cup so tightly, I fear it’s going to break and slosh beer everywhere. I set it behind me and push it away. Gripping the edge of the counter, my ears start ringing. I can’t follow what Douglas Archer is saying or what Tyrone says back. They think I’m listening to their conversation, but I’m just breathing harder. I can’t stay here. I can’t be in the same room as him.
He ruined me, and I let him. I’m angry I let him beat me, and now, here I am, ready to run from him again. I’m afraid. I’ve never before been afraid of anyone.
I push away from Archer, mumbling I needed to piss. I flee the area. I get far away from Hans Bleckley. That’s his name. One of those cowardly fucks that I could deck in a single punch. My arms are twice his size, yet I’m the one who’s panicking and sneaking away. I can’t explain my reaction. My heart is hammering, and my breathing comes in gasps, like it’s about to be cut off.
I can’t stand to be near them. All I see is my failure, and what I let them do and say to me. How I let them demean and humiliate me. At the first game, I was directly responsible for our team winning it. I’m the town hero, the stud, the god of the night. My name is buzzed about nationally as the player to watch. A fresh, up-and-comer to notice. I’m hailed for my speed, my strategy, and my sportsmanship. I excel in leadership and have no trouble gaining the respect of the players and students around campus. All those things are true. And yet, I hide from one little, average, blond-haired prick. He can’t run fast, or throw a ball, or lead a goat, much less anything or anyone else. But after he ganged up with his stupid friends, he had the cowardice to terrorize me.
And now I am the coward. I yell and scream at myself, but only inside my head.
Stop. Go back. I’m in the front yard, beyond the view from the house, and I fall to a knee and grab my head. Fuck. It hurts. The memory, the anxiety, whatever it is starts coursing through me all over again. I vowed not to tell anyone. And I did not. I never said a word since last year, and now I’m coming apart? From one stupid smirk?
Luckily, my life was pleasant. My quick ability to learn made me extremely good at school. My natural talent in speed and throwing gave me an edge in football. But I didn’t know that shit like that—what Hans and his crew like to do—really happened. I heard some stories. But I never had any personal experience with it in Silver Springs. I was born and raised there, and I rarely left home. Shit, I came here to Portland and had no idea. I started to get a clue but never in a million years did I expect what happened last year.
And now I’m supposed to make nice about it? Fuck no. No way is that ever going to happen. So I run. I escape from the bastard. Hyperventilating behind a tree and hiding from the memory. I’ve lost my damn mind, and it’s not funny. I suck in some air, breathing in and out, in and out. I stay hidden, feeling nauseated until my leg starts to cramp from the tense position in which I’m holding myself. I flop down on my ass, pulling my knees up and burying my forehead in them. Hiding from the bullies like a pussy. That fuckhead Hans damn well knows I left the house. He must have seen me run out like his little bitch. Acting like I’m afraid.
Only hours ago, the entire football stadium was chanting my name. Mine. Not Hans’, the prick. My name, Wyatt Kincaid. Wyatt fucking Kincaid. I can’t stay out here, acting scared of him. Fear lodges in my throat as I relive something that already happened but is dead and gone now and needs to be buried for good. I need to stick my chest out and strut around like the fucking cock of the campus, and I really could be if I let myself, and the audience would certainly support me. Their attention on me was fixed and set. Their ability to garner sympathy for me against the bullies is possible.
My humiliation prevents me from telling a single soul. Here I am, the guy everyone looks up to and reveres as a football hero and stud, and ye
t I’m treated like that? Who am I protecting? The university? Why am I trying to ignore the racism here after I experienced it firsthand?
I think it’s mostly because I can’t stand to admit that it happened to me. I was in a weakened state and easily overpowered, which is something I never considered. I was forced to my knees, and they smashed my face in the wet, soggy grass. It soaked my jeans from my knees to my ankles and left my face streaked with muddy stains. I was mocked and scorned. Ridiculed. They insulted me with the very worst words, and if I’d been on my feet and not outnumbered five-to-one, none of them would have dared to utter those words to my face. Or even out loud in most circumstances, especially in the light of day. Polite, white society and formal institutions don’t openly say the names they called me. Raised in a middle-class home and community, I just wasn’t called those names to my face, out of anger or hate. Not like this. That kind of shit just didn’t happen to me.
Until it did.
I still can’t process it. I avoided the culprits last year. I made sure of that. I didn’t expect Hans to walk in tonight. And then I lost it and ran out here. The punk turned me into a scared, little mouse. I might as well be on my ass again in the grass and all because of that whiny, punk ass.
My stomach churns in knots, so I can’t go back there and face him. I’m not going to call him out either. I’d have to explain why. Never. I’ll never be the victim for the next campus Crisis of Conscience in the United States. Like last year in Arizona when the kid got hazed so long, he died of alcohol poisoning, and no one called 911 for over twelve hours. Or the year before that in Alabama when a list that belonged to one of the fraternities came to light. It described in detail which girls were given date-rape drugs and later raped and scored on.
Stories like those always caused a media stir. Reporters act as if the racism and the toxic settings that lead to such scandals are isolated or new phenomena. All of this shit happens everywhere, in every state and almost every college and high school, every single year. Everybody knows it. But when the media airs a case, suddenly the entire country cares. Administration and alumni instantly step in to start the investigations, eager to dole out the punishments and make an example as if it’s new or rare, but it never is.
Well, hell, why would I advertise that the star quarterback of this school was attacked last year on campus by five white guys? Was it race-based? Well, fuck, I didn’t ask them. But it seems pretty obvious to me. They didn’t advise me of their motives. They just assaulted me, called me names, and proceeded to hit, push, and hold me down, topping it off with a disgusting loogie they spat on me at the end.
By calling them out, I would become the latest victim of a hate crime for the media. I would promptly be diced up and spat out. Along with my dad, my mom, Ebony, and even my grandparents. And when Ebony’s murder came out, the tongues would start wagging. People would decide for themselves whether or not I deserved the fucking attack.
I can’t do it. I won’t expose my life or the lives of my family to random, rude comments, or the scrutiny and subjective judgment of society. No. I will not be talked about, questioned, interviewed, or investigated. There can be no punishment for the fucks who did that to me because I can’t be involved in bringing them to justice. Besides, no form of justice could soothe me or give me any sense of closure. No. For me, it’s all pointless. Assholes are just assholes. Mean people are just mean, and history is full of them and will continue to be full of them.
I will not add my name to the list of all the other victims for whom justice failed to punish the heinous acts perpetrated upon them.
I’ll keep it under wraps. And I sure as shit know they are too chicken-livered to tell on themselves. Nobody rats themselves out. They might brag to each other, but not to anyone else. So, the silence is a bond, a conspiracy of the perpetrators and the victim sharing the same goal of keeping it quiet.
I get up despite my spinning head, clammy hands, and difficulty breathing. My racing heart finally slows down and regulates. I’m sure I just had a panic attack.
I need to get out of here and go home. I start heading for my truck when I stop dead. Duh. Jacey. I can’t leave her in there.
I nearly fold up over the door handle, feeling utterly defeated. I don’t dare go back inside but I can’t leave her. I suck in a breath of air, commanding my lungs to inhale. I am hoping to stave off another dizzying panic attack. I have to go back inside the house.
How can I be afraid? I face the lines of defense every week, and those guys are intent on making me land on my back, totally incapacitated. But in that case, I have no problem with nerves. Nothing about that scares me. I hardly flinch. I start to grin. I love it. The challenge of weaving in and out of them or tossing a ball before they can reach me is thrilling. It primes and invigorates me.
Although Hans is a guy I could flatten in a matter of seconds, just walking into his fraternity, a burning sense of dread, albeit unfounded, makes my heart hammer again.
Jacey. I need to face up to this for Jacey.
I turn and steel myself. No one would ever guess how afraid I am. I can’t believe how frightened I am. I enter the crowded, loud, noisy fray of guys. Everyone is drinking, two are doing a beer bong, others are lazing around a guy who’s playing guitar. Another couple seem close to screwing against the wall in the corner. I scan the room quickly, but don’t spot Hans. All the while, I get fist-bumped, and people touch my arm or shoulder as I pass them. Especially girls. But it’s all over for me now. There’s no fun in it now. I don’t feel like a superstar. I’m a fraud. A scam. A wimp. All this praise and adulation belongs to someone else, not to me.
In the kitchen, I glance at the drinking crowd. They’ve gotten much sloppier since I left. More raucous laughter, some darkly perverted jokes, more laughter. Some girls are hanging on the players, and the three Jacey was talking to are beside different girls. I can’t find Jacey. I scan all the rooms, my stomach now fluttering. How long was I gone? A half hour? An hour maybe. Where could she be? Upstairs? I groan. I want to get out right now. Every second I remain here, I chance another Hans sighting. I need to get out of this enclosed space before I do.
I ask Hunter. “Where’d Jacey go?”
He shrugs. His eyes are hazy and his smile sloppy. “Don’t know.”
Huh. I start to turn when Jackson says, “She went outside with Hans. I think they’re out back.”
I freeze and start to head towards the hallway and stairs. My heart aching in disbelief that the fucker would go after Jacey. I’m sure it’s only because she came with me. I know he did that on purpose. He’s decent looking, I suppose, with blond hair, blue eyes, and strong Nordic features. Shit. Jacey and him? I can’t see that.
I step out back, my gut hurting as I look around the back and see them. They are talking in a gazebo and there’s no one else around. Just those two. She’s freaking smiling up at him. For real. Smiling like a Cheshire Cat. How could she smile at him like that?
Anger turns to rage, something I’ve tried to contain since it happened, and it soon boils up from my guts. I feel it climbing up my throat, and my jaw juts forward as I clench it tightly. She’s smiling at him. She looks so easy and casual and interested. Oh, yeah, Jacey Walker is interested. I squeeze my fists and all but stomp my feet. NO! Just no. This cannot be the scenario. I should leave her and let her have that prick. Let her fuck him. Let him use and abuse her. After how he’s treated me, I’m sure he’ll be nice, polite, and respectful to her. Sure. Yeah. Seems likely.
But I can’t leave Jacey here. Not with that prick. I can’t even stand her being near him. Ah, shit, she is laughing at something stupid he said. Quit laughing. Quit smiling. It makes my blood boil. No. Fuck. She must not laugh and smile at this flaming pile of dog shit.
I don’t care how it comes across. Not when it’s about this.
I stomp up the stairs and across the wooden gazebo, abruptly grabbing Jacey’s arm right above her elbow. She flips her head immediately around. Frowning a
nd glaring at me, she nearly scratches my hand until she recognizes me. “Oh, Wyatt. Hey. I wondered where you went off to.”
I don’t even glance at Hans. I glare straight into her face. Traitor. How dare she be with him? Fuck. How dare she smile at him? My anger makes me press harder into her flesh. “Hey, lighten up,” she says as she flicks her hand.
“Let’s go. Now.” I pull her away and turn with my fingers still wrapped around her arm, forcing her up before she has to take a few steps to keep up with me.
She stumbles and yanks her arm out of my grasp. “What the hell? Wyatt!”
My head immediately starts splitting. Shit. What am I doing? I physically yanked Jacey to her feet. I don’t usually do things like that. Her anger is justified. I still refuse to look at Hans, although I catch his movement from the corner of my eye. He gets on his feet. I keep my gaze solidly on her as I press my forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very good, and it’s making me short-tempered.” I take in a deep breath before ordering myself to calm down. Way down. “Please, Jacey, can we go now?”
Her expression softens. The sparks that were all but shooting from her eyes vanish. She blinks and puffs out her cheeks in a long exhale. “You could have just said that to begin with.”
“Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry. Will you come with me now?”
She nods. “Just a moment.”
I step back, turning away as I hear the pleasant tones of her friendly conversation to Hans. I don’t know what she says, nor do I turn back around to find out. My hands are sweating, and I feel streams of it rolling down my armpits and chest, making me seriously uncomfortable. The cold sweat of fear. I’m shaking my head at my flood of emotions. Why do I fear this man? He’s physically smaller than me, and his body-mass is half the size of mine. There’s no way he could beat me up. Not by himself.
I lower my head and realize it’s the fucking symbol he represents. It suddenly hits me smack in the chest, hard enough to knock the wind out of me. He represents the harm that could happen to me. Harm I believed I was isolated from. Turns out I was wrong.
