Okay, Delaney thought with a sigh. Her mother had pulled out the old horrified gasp. Her guess hadn't been far off.
"I cut my hair. What do you think?"
Silly question. Every inch of Alma, from her pinched expression to the hunched curve of her shoulders told Delaney exactly what was going on in her mother's head.
"Munch will have a fit."
"I don't care," Delaney said, a little of the confidence she felt when Travis was with her melting away. But she held her head high, her gaze unwavering. "Munch doesn't get to dictate how I wear my hair. Not anymore."
"Is that right?"
Delaney gasped, her back slamming against the closed door. Lips curled in more of a sneer than a smile, Munch stood in the hall, a can of beer in one hand. The other, balled into a fist, he rhythmically tapped on his thick, heavily muscled thigh. Dark eyes cold, they stayed glued to her, the floor creaking ominously as he deliberately closed the space between them.
"What are you doing here?"
"I live here, little girl. Lord and master. A fact you seem to have forgotten."
Munch shoved the can at his wife, beer spraying Alma in the face. She stumbled but kept the contents from spilling onto her clean floors.
Delaney fumbled for the doorknob. But she knew her efforts were fruitless. Munch grabbed her by the arm, his fingers biting into her tender flesh.
"Aren't you happy to see me, little girl? I came back early just for you."
Delaney swallowed. She didn't know when Munch started drinking, but the fresh smell of beer mingled heavily with stale whiskey.
"You've been bad while I was gone, little girl," Munch snarled. Lifting her, he slung Delaney over his shoulder, turning on his heel. "Time to find out just how bad."
CHAPTER TEN
● ≈ ● ≈ ●
"WE'RE NUMBER ONE! We're number one!"
The chant had started as Green Hills made the last out in the bottom of the ninth inning to win the high school's first-ever state championship. The exuberance had carried over non-stop for the past twenty-four hours.
Exhausted—in the best possible way—Travis rested his head on the back of the seat, eyes closed but nowhere close to sleep. They'd done what they had set out to do. They raised the trophy. In the process, Travis was named tournament MVP.
The perfect end to his high school baseball career.
Another burst of enthusiastic cheers engulfed the bus. Shaking his head, Travis opened his eyes. He could tell by the way his teammates had ramped up the noise that they were getting close to home.
"Wake up, superstar. The whole town will be there to greet the conquering heroes. They'll want Mr. MVP right out front."
Since their win, Eddie had morphed from responsible equipment manager to the life of the party. On a non-stop bender, he somehow managed to supply anybody who was interested—which was most of the team—with all the alcohol they could want. Right under the noses of their coaches, teachers, and parents.
"Jesus." Travis winced when he got a whiff of Eddie. "You smell like a distillery. One located next to a B.O. factory. Did you bother to shower this morning?"
"Unlike you, who had time? The rest of us were too busy partying, Grandpa."
Travis shrugged, not the least bit offended.
"I partied. Had my share of beer. But since I don't like the smell of my own filth, I took advantage of the indoor plumbing in our motel room."
"Ha. Funny." Taking a long pull on the straw that stuck out of the 7-Eleven cup, Eddie sighed with pleasure. "Half Slurpee, half cheap vodka. Want some? The guys at the back of the bus call it the breakfast of champions. And lunch. And dinner."
Just the thought made Travis' stomach clench in distress.
"I'll pass."
"Your loss, man."
As Eddie slurped away, Travis turned his attention out the window and Delaney. Except when he was on the field, she hadn't been far from his thoughts all week.
Travis shifted in his seat, feeling more and more restless. The trip home seemed interminable. Was Delaney safe? Did she need him? And how long until this fucking bus finally reached their destination?
"We'll be pulling into Green Hills in about fifteen minutes," Coach Fields called out from his seat behind the driver. "Things will probably get crazy fast, so don't worry about unloading your gear. We'll take care of sorting everybody's personal possessions another time. For today, enjoy yourselves. Bask a little in the cheers and adulation. You've earned it."
"You heard the man," Eddie elbowed Travis in the ribs. "Bask. Hell, man. You won a championship. Stop looking like somebody died."
Travis nodded, but fifteen minutes seemed to take an hour. They entered the city limits, taking a right toward the high school. As expected, the parking lot overflowed. As the bus slowed to a stop, he caught sight of a bandstand drenched in the school colors. Red and gold, as far as the eye could see.
Spirits buoyed, Travis exited, waving. Some of the people had been at the tournament, but most couldn't make the trip. But they wanted to show their support, cheer their team. Thank the boys for the hard work.
Standing with his teammates, Travis scanned the crowd. He knew his father wouldn't be there. Alan had taken time off to come to the final game, but today he was back at work.
As for Delaney, Travis didn't expect to see her, but he couldn't help hoping she might have found a way to be there. Mayor Detwiler, puffed up as if he were personally responsible for bringing the trophy home, made a long, drawn-out speech before shaking each player's hand.
"Great job, Travis." Detwiler grinned, his eyes covered by a pair of designer sunglasses. "We're awfully proud of you."
Travis nodded, pulling his hand away after a perfunctory shake. The mayor waited, expectantly. Did he expect Travis to thank him? If so, they would be there a long time. Forever.
Gaze unwavering, Travis felt a tinge of satisfaction when Detwiler's mouth tightened before he moved on.
"No good bastard," Travis muttered.
The longer the celebration continued—dragged on—the more anxious Travis became. He wanted to see Delaney. To see for himself that she was okay.
Finally—almost thirty minutes later—the team was allowed to leave the bandstand. Eddie met Travis at the bottom of the steps.
"I know who you've been looking for." Voice slurred, he placed a hand on Travis' shoulder to keep his balance. "But she isn't here. I made sure she wouldn't be. You can thank me anytime."
"What the hell are you talking about? You took care of what?"
"Your wimpy little girlfriend. Delaney," Eddie sneered, hiccupping. "She tried to get her claws into you. But I cut them off. Or something like that."
Grabbing Eddie by the shirt, Travis pulled him close, unconcerned about the crowd around them.
"What the hell did you do?"
Eddie grinned, his vision too blurred by alcohol and conceit to see the burning anger in Travis' eyes.
"Contacted Munch Brill. My dad has his number," Eddie boasted. "One little call solved our problem. And put a few bucks in my pocket."
"You told Delaney's stepfather? About me? That she and I were friends?"
"Mm. Real interested, too. Hightailed it back from Mexico," Eddie snorted, amused. "Didn't like the idea of leaving his sweet little girl in your lecherous clutches."
"Fucking asshole. You have no idea what you've done."
"I saved you a lot of grief. That's what friends do."
"Friends? Not anymore. You and me? We're through. For good."
"What? Why?"
Travis wanted to smash Eddie's teeth down his throat, but he didn't have the time to deal with the inevitable repercussions. He had one thing on his mind. Getting to Delaney. Fast as possible.
He cut through the crowd, ignoring the call-outs and grasping hands. Around the back of the school, Travis didn't notice all the sets of eyes that tracked his progress. Or how several people followed close behind, car
eful not to lose sight.
Travis knew the alleyways like the back of his hand. He didn't have to think twice about the shortest route. As his legs carried him with the speed of an athlete—easy, automatic—his thoughts ran wild with worry. He berated himself for not protecting Delaney. Alma Brill for not protecting her daughter. And he cursed Munch Brill for the monster he was.
He couldn't rush in without a plan. Or maybe he could. He could knock on the front door and ask to see Delaney. Simple. Direct. To the point. The response he received would determine his next course of action.
Halfway there, Travis rounded the next corner. And almost smack into Munch Brill.
"Well, well, well. Who do we have here?"
Feet planted a shoulder width apart, Munch looked Travis up and down. Beside him stood a man Travis didn't recognize. But he looked like a thug. A cliché villain from a Hollywood movie. And scary as hell.
Travis took in the situation. Two against one. The odds weren't in his favor.
"I want to make sure Delaney is okay."
"I don't give a shit, you little prick."
The first swing missed as Travis ducked to the right. But for a big man, Munch was fast on his feet. The second swing grazed his chin. The third—a direct hit to his gut—sent Travis to his knees.
"Do you think you could take what was mine and not pay the price?" Munch circled. "You're lucky my uncle had his heart set on bragging up the fact his town is state champs. Otherwise, I would've tracked you down like the dog you are."
"You're scum." Travis hissed with pain when Munch kicked him in the thigh. "Delaney doesn't belong to you."
"I had the doctor check her out," Munch continued, ignoring Travis. "Still intact. Pure as the day she was born. What's wrong, boy? Couldn't get it up?"
"We didn't have sex. But we did plenty of other things."
The taunt wasn't smart, but Travis wanted to wipe the self-satisfied smirk from Munch's face. He got his wish. And another kick, this time connecting with the middle of his back, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
Silent, up until now an observer instead of a participant, the man with Munch spoke for the first time. Cool and calm. As if discussing the weather.
"Whatever you have planned, finish. I don't want my dinner to get cold."
"You think you're going to play professional ball? Be a superstar? Good luck. When I'm through crushing every finger on your fucking hands, you won't be able to pick up a fucking spoon, let alone field a fucking ball."
For the first time, Travis felt a rush of real fear. He wouldn't go down without a fight, but his best shot was to run. First, he had to get back on his feet. He didn't have time to wait for the perfect moment. Now, or never.
Travis flattened his hands on the ground, pushed up. And did something he hadn't done since before his mother died.
He prayed.
With every fiber of his being.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
● ≈ ● ≈ ●
DELANEY POUNDED AT the door, screaming for her mother. She'd tried everything. Anger. Tears. Threats. All were met with silence. But Delaney kept trying.
"I know you have the key. Please, Mom. If you don't let me out, Munch will kill Travis. You go to church every Sunday. What would God tell you to do?"
Again, silence.
After the last week, Delaney was at her wit's end. Knowing Travis was in trouble and there was nothing she could do, she felt sick—both mentally and physically—beyond reason.
The day Munch met her in the hall—home from Mexico ahead of schedule—she was certain he would rape her. Instead, he took her to see Dr. Crenshaw for an examination to determine if she were still a virgin.
Outraged, Delaney protested. She only relented when Munch gave her a choice. Let the doctor look, or he would.
The experience wasn't horrible. Dr. Crenshaw acted professionally. Quick and mostly painless. However, Delaney didn't think she'd willingly get a pelvic examination for many, many years to come.
Munch didn't say anything about her hair. In fact, Munch didn't say much at all. Back home, he locked her in her room. And there she stayed.
What Munch had told the school, she didn't know. But her meals were left outside her door three times a day. She didn't know what she would have done if she hadn't had access to a toilet. The idea of using a chamber pot was almost as horrifying as her trip to Dr. Crenshaw.
Delaney had been staring out the window when Munch knocked on her door.
"Time to take care of your boyfriend, Laney. I hope you said a nice goodbye because you won't ever see him again."
"No!" Delaney screamed, her fists hitting the door.
An hour later, her hands and voice were raw. Traces of blood marred the pink paint, but she wouldn't stop. Not even if she hit bone.
"Please," Delaney cried. "Please."
The sound of the key turning in the lock made her freeze, certain wishful thinking made her hear something that wasn't true.
"I don't know what Munch will say," Alma whispered as she cautiously opened the door.
Delaney hugged her mother, knowing the courage it took to defy Munch. Courage she hadn't thought Alma possessed.
"Thank you," Delaney gave her fierce hug.
Alma nodded, biting her lip.
"I don't know where Munch went."
"I do."
The high school, Delaney thought, racing from the house. She knew Green Hill won the championship thanks to the little transistor radio she kept hidden in her room. She'd danced around her room when she heard the news, so happy for Travis.
The announcer had mentioned there would be a huge rally at the school this afternoon. Munch would find Travis there. She only hoped she'd be in time to warn him.
Delaney took the same route to and from school more times than she could count. But she didn't remember the trip taking so long. Her legs felt like limp noodles, her feet as though they were encased in cement. With each step, she chanted to herself.
Please keep him safe. Please keep him safe.
"What's your hurry, Dippy?"
Pete Doran yelled from the corner. Miles Weller—Pete's right-hand jerk—and the rest of his friends laughed. Delaney couldn't have said why she stopped. He was a bully. A slacker. He probably got his jollies by pulling the wings off helpless insects.
However, at the moment, why didn't matter. She needed help, and Pete was her only port in the storm.
"Come with me," she panted, grabbing his hand.
"Sorry, honey. You ain't my type. Especially with that haircut," Pete snickered, the sycophants he ran with joining in. "Did you use a hacksaw or did you chew the ends off?"
The last thing Delaney was worried about was her hair. Or Pete's snarky attitude. Or that any other time, she would have kept her head down and avoided him at all costs.
"For once in your life, shut up and listen."
Pete's lazy gaze hardened.
"You want a slap upside your head, Dippy?"
"You could try." She'd stared down Munch. After dealing with the biggest bully God ever put on this Earth, Pete was a piece of cake. "Travis is in trouble, and I need your help."
"Now, why would I lift a finger to help Travis Forsythe?" Pete seemed to find the idea beyond ridiculous.
"Because I know you aren't a bully. Not deep inside."
Pete laughed. "What am I?"
"A hero."
"What?" he scoffed, but in his eyes, Delaney saw a flicker of something that gave her hope.
"Hear that, Pete?" Miles Weller cackled, a dribble of chewing tobacco running down his chin, mingling into a week's worth of a scruffy beard. "Dippy thinks you're a hee-row. She really is as crazy as everyone says."
"Shut up," Pete said sharply.
"A hero," she said, seeing her chance as she tried to convince them both. "Help me, Pete. Show your friends—this town—who you really are."
Desperate, Delaney tugged on his hand—
this time with all her might. She'd never know what made him move. Had she magically developed irresistible powers of persuasion? Or maybe the taunt from Miles spurred him into action.
Either way, when she pulled, his considerable weight moved in her direction.
"What the hell. I ain't got nothin' else to do. Where are we headed?" he asked, chugging alongside her, his big stomach jiggling, his breathing heavy.
"I—" Out of the corner of her eye, Delaney caught a flash of red. Munch's truck, parked on the street. Near the alley. "There."
TRAVIS JUMPED TO his feet ready to run. Or fight. He pivoted, sticking his foot out, sending a lunging Munch to the ground. After that, everything happened in a blur.
Delaney rushed into the alley. Followed by Pete Doran. What the hell? They were the most unlikely cavalry in history, but he wasn't in any position to argue. And damn, Del looked spectacular. Eyes blazing. Her short cap of hair a mass of wild spikes. A warrior princess ready for battle.
"Watch your back," Travis called out.
Surprisingly spry, Pete picked up an old piece of lumber and took out Munch's pal with one swing. Thunk. On the way down, the goon hit his head on the side of a brick wall. Out for the count.
Munch tried to rise. Travis shoved him with his foot. Holding nothing back, he kicked his adversary in the ribs, the sound of bones cracking like music to his ears.
"Are you okay?" Delaney asked. Out of breath, her eyes were an intense amethyst—bright with worry.
"I am now."
"I'm so sorry, Travis. Munch came after you because of me."
"Bullshit." Travis wouldn't let Delaney take the blame. He swallowed, not sure how to ask what he had to know. "Del. Did he…? Has he…?"
"No."
One word. And the cool touch of her hand on his was all the assurance Travis needed. For the first time since he left the high school, he felt he could breathe.
Delaney gasped, her grip tightening on his arm. Munch had grabbed her ankle.
"Mine," Munch ground out through gritted teeth. He tried to rise, but the pain was too much. Travis knew from experience. Broken ribs were a bitch. And slow to heal. "You can't have her, you little fuck. Laney is mine."
For All We Know (One Strike Away Book 3) Page 9
