by Monica James
So, who am I to argue?
***
After my eighth drink, things become kind of fuzzy, and also a little uncomfortable. Tabitha is chatting to an old high school friend, while Tristan and I are playing the drinking game, Animal.
There are numerous shot glasses littering the sticky tabletop in front of me because I suck at this game. Tristan, on the other hand, is a pro, making me look like a total amateur.
“You suck!” I laugh, slapping my palms against the table and downing my shot of whatever sits in front of me.
Tristan chuckles, running a hand through his messy hair.
“Now, don’t be a sore loser,” he grins, while I scrunch my face up in disgust after tossing back a drink that tastes like gasoline.
“Oh,” I blow out a raspberry at him, “to you!”
He cracks up laughing, while I’m attempting to breathe after my potent cocktail.
“This game blows. Next!” I chuckle, swatting him in the arm.
Tristan laughs, tapping his chin in thought.
“Guys, I’m going to go dance,” Tabitha says, smiling. “Wanna come with?”
Both Tristan and I shake our heads animatedly, and she laughs.
“Okay, I’ll be back soon.” She shuffles out the booth, boogying down to the dance floor.
Tristan slides two shot glasses out in front of us.
“Next game. Truth or dare.”
I know better, as my truths are going to get me into trouble, but I stupidly nod when my brain is screaming no.
“Okay, you first,” Tristan smiles devilishly.
“Hmm, truth,” I say foolishly.
I am obviously drunk, as sober Mia would be avoiding the truth like the plague.
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?”
That’s easy.
“I fell asleep while skinny dipping, and woke up giving a boy scout his first erection.”
Tristan laughs hysterically while knocking back a shot. I’m not too sure of the rules, but I’m guessing if the answer to the question is acceptable, then the person who asked the question must have a drink.
“Okay, my turn.”
I really want to ask him about his family, but I don’t.
“Who was your first crush?”
Tristan smiles and replies without thought. “Jessica Rabbit.”
“The cartoon character?” I ask on a laugh.
Tristan nods, and bites his lip playfully. “Yes. Isn’t she every eight year old boy’s fantasy?”
I splutter out a laugh and take a drink of my tequila.
This goes on for about ten minutes, and I’m actually enjoying myself, as I’m getting to know Tristan through the silly questions I’m asking.
Tristan spins his empty shot glass, obviously thinking of a question to ask me.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
My laugh dies down when I think about how I would answer that question, and I’m sure it shows on my face.
“Dare!” I quickly cry, nearly jumping out of my seat.
Tristan cocks his pierced eyebrow.
“Are you sure? I’m giving you one last chance to back out.”
I shake my head, my hair swishing with the movement.
“I’m no quitter, Berkeley. Give it your best shot,” I reply smugly.
Tristan inches toward me, dipping his face to meet mine.
“Kiss me,” he whispers, his honey colored eyes focused on mine.
Okay, I take it back, truth! I retort to myself. But I can’t go back now.
I lean forward to kiss his cheek, but he backs away.
“Not there. Here,” he says, pointing to his full, pink lips.
My eyes drop on their own accord and as he licks his plump lower lip, my heart begins beating frantically.
I can’t kiss him, it’s… wrong. But how the hell am I going to back out now? I need a distraction, and like now.
“Hey, kids.”
Crisis averted.
I pull away so quickly, my head spins and I smash into Quinn, who has taken a seat beside me. As soon as my flesh touches his, my skin is alight.
He looks perfect, as usual, in a tight white t-shirt, black jeans, and a leather jacket.
He pulls in his bottom lip, his white teeth tugging at his piercing reflectively. I don’t know what he’s thinking and it pisses me off. Everything about him pisses me off, but I can’t stay away.
Tristan clears his throat and I shrink away, as I have inadvertently almost climbed into Quinn’s lap. Then the nasty image of Amber and Quinn together assaults my brain, and I inch away from him.
“What are you doing here?” Tristan asks with an edge to his voice.
Quinn smiles boldly. “Hello to you too, brother.” He reaches for a shot glass and throws his head back, downing it quickly.
I am fixated on the way his throat moves, swallowing down the liquor, his Adam’s apple moving as the liquid goes down.
Mentally slapping myself, I refocus.
“How are you, Red?” Quinn asks with a frown, as he stares disapprovingly at my face.
“Peachy,” I sharply reply, trying not to decode his frown.
“You look,” and he stops, searching for the right word. “Different.”
Well, fuck him. I don’t need his approval, and who is he to judge, as he had no qualms fucking a soulless whore. Images of him driving into Amber plague my brain, and my blood begins to boil.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you cared what I looked like. But isn’t it lucky I don’t care what you think,” I spit out heatedly.
Quinn looks taken aback by my outburst, and I suddenly feel like I’m about to suffocate.
“Let me out.”
I stand up abruptly, trying to push past Quinn, who is blocking my escape.
Both he and Tristan stand, and I need to get the hell outta here, pronto! Thankfully, Quinn steps aside and I race past him, storming off, looking for Tabitha.
I need to get away from Quinn because my traitorous body is responding to him in a way it shouldn’t, especially after what I saw.
Where is Tabitha? She’ll know what to do.
Scanning the packed place, I can’t see her anywhere. She’s not on the dance floor or bar, so that leaves the bathroom.
I enter the black painted room and try not to heave at the smell. Kicking off a stray piece of toilet paper which has stuck to the bottom of my boot, I call out to her.
“Abi?”
There are five cubicles, and as I look under the door of each, I hear a groan in the end stall.
Quietly, I knock on the door.
“Abi, is that you?”
“Paige?” she asks, followed by her throwing her guts up.
“I’m coming in,” I warn and push open the door, slipping into the small cubicle.
Tabitha is hunched over the bowl, grabbing onto the sides as her body shudders with the force of her heaving. I brush back her fiery red hair to stop puke from getting into it.
“What’s the matter? Is it something you ate?” I ask, holding her hair in a lose ponytail.
After one last puke, she shakes her head loosely.
“No, I don’t know what happened. One minute I was dancing and then the next I felt dizzy, disoriented, and couldn’t even stand upright. I felt like I was drunk, but I only had one drink.”
That sparks my interest.
“What did you drink?”
She whispers, “Don’t get mad, but Brad bought me a drink. He said he wanted to bury the hatchet and that he was sorry. I didn’t see the harm in it,” she says with a slur which echoes off the toilet rim, as her head is buried into the porcelain.
“And you got sick not too long afterward?” I ask, my heart beginning to pound.
She lazily nods
“Abi, look at me,” I say and she weakly lifts her head, which flops as she’s unable to support herself.
“I can’t see you properly, Paige,” she says with diff
iculty, as her eyes slip shut.
I see red.
“Abi, can you stand?”
She shrugs, which results in her slipping forward and smacking her head against the wall. She tries to move, but has limited muscle control.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter with rage. I’m going to kill him. “Abi, I can’t lift you, so I’m going to go get Tristan, okay? Don’t move.”
She nods, tears slipping from her frightened eyes, begging me to help her.
I squeeze her shoulder softly, giving her a reassuring smile.
“I’ll be right back.”
I sprint out the bathroom, almost slipping on the tiles as my body is pulsating in rage. I search for Tristan, but don’t have to look far.
He and Quinn are standing a few feet away from the girls’ bathroom, talking animatedly. They stop as soon as they see me approach, and I don’t have time to question what it is they’re discussing.
“Tristan, Abi is sick.”
Tristan’s eyes soften. “What’s the matter?”
I look from him to Quinn, who looks as serious as I’ve ever seen him.
“Brad rufied her,” I spit out, tying back my hair, which is pissing me off.
Both brothers’ faces reflect the other’s identically.
“What the fuck?” Quinn snarls, his strong jaw clenching.
I blow out a breath and shrug.
“Brad is a dick and he’ll pay for what he did. But for now, can you help me carry her out? She can’t stand. She…”
Before I finish my sentence, Quinn is stalking into the ladies’ bathroom, unconcerned if it’s occupied or not. He’s out a second later with Tabitha cradled in his arms, her hands wrapped around his neck and her head tucked under his chin.
“Where’s her car?” Quinn asks, rearranging his hands under her knees, holding her tighter into him.
Tristan searches for Tabitha’s keys in her shoulder bag.
“Follow me,” he says as he fishes them out.
He and Quinn turn to leave, but there’s no way I’m letting Brad off.
“You guys get Abi to the car. I gotta grab my bag and stuff. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Quinn looks at me, his eyes narrowing, but he doesn’t argue.
“C’mon, Tris,” and he turns, holding Tabitha like she weighs nothing more than a feather.
Tristan gives me one last look and I nod, hoping he follows Quinn. Thankfully he does.
As soon as the boys are out the door, my eyes search the room for Brad. He’s not at all hard to spot with his ridiculous college football jacket and greasy hair. He’s flirting with some bimbo at the bar, and knowing I don’t have much time, I gotta be quick.
Pushing my way through the sea of clones and reaching into my top, ensuring my push up bra is doing its job, I reach Brad in less than a minute.
I shove my way between him and some blonde, twirling her hair between her fingers.
“Hi, Brad,” I purr, running my finger down his clean shaven cheek.
The barfly takes the hint and storms off, leaving me alone with this disgusting individual.
Brad looks taken aback, but as I wet my lips and push out my chest, an air of confidence passes over him.
“Hey, babe,” he breathes, looking down my top. “Not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing?”
I lean forward, my red lips grazing his cheek as I whisper, “Hopefully you, in the next two minutes.”
I actually feel sick being this close to him as his cheap cologne is suffocating me, and so is the predatory look in his brown, beady eyes.
“Couldn’t stay away,” he says cockily, running a big, rough hand down my hip.
Fighting the urge to scratch out his eyeballs, I reply, “Something like that. Follow me,” I say over my shoulder, making sure to wiggle my ass as I walk away.
It works, and he’s following in hot pursuit.
We exit and I round the corner, looking for a dark, seedy place. Perfect. I spot an alleyway, and head for it.
“Where you going, you freaky fox?” he says, making a grab for my ass.
The bile creeps into my throat when I feel his grabby hands fondle my ass with probing fingers.
I quicken my step and as we’re halfway down the alley, Brad grabs my arm and slams me into the wall. The bricks scratch at my bare back as I have on a short cami, but this is good. I want him to hurt me, as it just fuels the rage I have burning inside of me.
His hands roughly take hold of my breasts and he kneads them forcefully, while I faux giggle.
“Brad, baby,” I say huskily. “Let me take care of you.”
Placing my hand on his chest, I push him back, switching positions so his back is now pressed up against the dirty wall.
He licks his thin lips and eyes my breasts with hunger.
“Come on, then. It’s not going to suck itself,” he says with a shit-eating grin.
Taking a deep breath and utilizing my streets smarts, I run my hands down his muscled body, and he groans as I unbuckle his football shaped belt buckle.
I seductively look up at him as I drop to a crouch and purr, “I am about to blow your mind,” and I lick my lips.
He leans his head back and closes his eyes, moaning.
“Oh, you fucking crazy bitch.”
I take this moment to reach into my boot and pull out my flick knife. With lightning speed, I dig the knife into his throat, and his eyes open in alarm. I thrust down onto his windpipe as he pushes off the wall, but stops as he feels my blade cut into his throat.
His wide eyes look down at me as he spits out, “You’re so fucking dead.”
Scoffing, I push my arm across his chest, tilting the knife up and nicking his Adam’s apple.
“Funny, seeing as I’m the one with the knife. You’re going to stay away from Tabitha,” I sneer, eyeing him angrily.
“You’re both dead,” he declares, trying to push forward.
Looks like the knife isn’t making my intentions clear, so I quickly reach down, grab his balls, and twist.
He lets out a pained yelp and his eyes instantly water.
“Like I was saying, you will stay the fuck away from her, because if you don’t…” I twist a little harder. “This disgusting thing will become aquatinted with my knife. And next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”
Brad’s face is turning blue and he’s gasping for air, so I let him go, but my knife stays poised at his neck.
“We clear?”
Brads nods, unable to speak.
I pull my knife away as I’m pretty certain Brad is now paralyzed in the groin area.
But I’m wrong.
As I turn away, he grabs me by the shoulder, slamming me backward, and I hit the wall, hard, my knife falling from my hand. A rush of wind leaves my lungs and I’m stunned. But when he comes toward me, his fist aimed for my head, I duck low and punch him in the abdomen. I’ve winded him, as I’ve hit him in the solar plexus and he pulls away, clutching his side, struggling to breathe.
I deliver a right hook to his face and his head snaps back with a sickening snap. Brad looks stunned that I have the balls to take on a two hundred pound quarterback, but I’ve taken on worse.
He licks his bleeding lip and charges me, but I sidestep him and knee him in the groin. He drops to the dirty floor, howling in pain.
Dropping down to eye level, I spit out, “You go near her, and I’ll finish what I started.”
Brad’s face is contorted in rage and pain as he holds his privates in his cupped palms.
Standing up and wiping the sweat from my brow as I turn my back is a total amateur move. Knowing I’m running out of time, I don’t pay attention to my surroundings, and this is what costs me.
Brad is like the Bionic Man as he grabs my feet, pulling them out from under me. I fall face first, my wrists breaking my fall, which crunch on impact.
I wince as my forehead hits the cement and I see stars.
Before I know what’s happening, Brad crawls on
to my back, using his heavy weight to crush me, which presses my chest into the dirty ground that smells of garbage and piss.
I try and buck him off, but he pins me with a knee in the center of my back, his whole weight resting on my spine. I kick out like a crazy woman, but I’m not going anywhere, as Brad outweighs me. His hands violently reaches for the waistband of my jeans, trying to yank them down.
Panic seizes my stomach and I know I need to get him off, because his intentions are made clear as I feel his arousal digging into my back.
“Get off!” I scream, kicking my legs, trying to dislodge him, but he’s going nowhere.
Feeling his fingers seek entrance into a place I never want him to be, he wraps my long hair, which has come loose from my ponytail, around his hand, pulling my head back all the way and exposing my neck.
“You fucking whore! I’m going to fuck you till that tight pussy bleeds… and then, I’m going to fuck it again and again.” He pulls my camisole roughly, tearing it in two.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I scream my lungs out, clawing at the ground underneath me, my fingernails bending backward with the pressure.
I need to come up with a plan in two seconds before Brad makes good on his word.
I am so angry at myself, I know better than this.
I’m about to fight with all my might, using what I learned on the streets when I feel Brad being yanked off my back, and the unmistakable sound of a fist connecting with flesh echoes off the alley walls.
Opening my eyes, everything is a little blurred as my head feels like it’s been run over by a semi, but I can make out Brad being beaten to a pulp by my hero.
I push up and wince as pain shoots up my arms, but I need to get off this dirty ground before I throw up. As I stand, I realize my top is hanging off me, my lacy red bra exposed for the world to see.
But that’s the least of my concerns as I see that Quinn is my superhero. And he’s currently kicking the shit out of a prone Brad, who’s lying in the gutter, each kick hollowing in his chest.
I limp over as my back feels bruised, holding my hands to my chest to stop my shirt from falling to the ground.
“Quinn.” It comes out hoarse.
But he doesn’t stop. He looks like a warrior, blood splashed across his face and knuckles—Brad’s blood.
Quinn continues kicking him in the ribs, and when I hear Brad splutter up a mouthful of blood, I know he won’t stop until Brad is either unconscious or dead.
