Page 61 of Make Me Yours

But no one’s policing that policy, the same way no one’s policing the clearly inebriated man cruising toward the glass elevator on the right side of the space.

The elevator is the same size as our luxurious bathroom at the hotel last night, with streak-free glass that makes it easy to see inside.

I spot Sully and the older woman she’s speaking to as the car descends from the third floor to the first. I reach for my phone to text her a warning, but it’s too late. I watch helplessly as she steps out of the car—still distracted by what looks like a tense conversation with the other woman—and practically runs into her father.

Or rather, he runs intoher.

As she moves past him, he lunges for her, grabbing her elbow and holding on tight as he slips and falls on the tile.

Sully cries out in pain as she’s dragged to the floor by a sharp jerk of her arm, sending the people waiting for the elevator scurrying backward with sounds of surprise.

And that’s all it takes.

Before I make a conscious decision to break my promise, I’m on the move. It’s instinctive. I can’t watch the woman I love be physically assaulted and sit on my fucking hands. Even if the man assaulting her is her dad, even if he clearly didn’t mean to hurt her.

Leon’s intentions don’t matter. What matters is that he’s drunk, causing a scene, and hurting Sully.

Her eyes are shining, and she winces in pain as she detangles herself from her father and sits up. She’s still on the floor, clutching her wounded arm to her chest when I arrive beside them.

She looks up, the pain in her eyes transforming to fear as her gaze meets mine.

Her lips part, presumably on a warning, but before she can say a word, a fist slams into the side of my head, sending agony flooding through my jaw and ringing into my ears.

chapter 21

GERTIE

Fuck,oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

My inner monologue is a stream of panicked, pain-filled obscenities as I struggle to get off the floor with only one functioning arm. I’m pretty sure my dad jerked my shoulder completely out of the socket when he dragged me to the ground—I can’t move it and the burning in the joint is excruciating—but that doesn’t matter now.

What matters is that my father is trying to kill my boyfriend before he’s even officially become my boyfriend.

We didn’t label things last night after we confessed our feelings. I assume professions of love and offers to set me up with a key to his place and a bank account in New York City are enough to take the boyfriend part for granted, but I don’twantto take it for granted.

I want to have that conversation with Weaver. I want to get excited about the first serious, committed relationship of my adult life. I want to relish every brilliant beautiful thing about being in love and taking the next steps with my person.

But, of course, none of that is going to happen.

It never was. Weaver and I were doomed from the start. This run-in with my father is just speeding along the inevitable ruin of the happiness I stupidly thought could be mine.

“Stop!” I cry out as my dad slams Weaver against the exterior of the elevator, sending a shudder through the glass encasing the shaft. “Dad, stop!”

But he just keeps slamming his fists into Weaver’s stomach with a speed and ferocity I didn’t realize my father still had in him.

As a younger man, he was one of the best boxers in the area. Before I was born, he used to win prize money in the amateur fights up and down the coast, and use it to take my mom out to fancy dinners. He still has a picture of them out at their favorite Italian place in Bangor on his mantle—Mom in a slinky gold dress and him with a black eye and a big grin.

But Dad hasn’t been that fit, powerful man in a long time.

This intensity isn’t a result of training or excelling at a sport; it’s rage, pure and simple. He’s running on adrenaline and hatred, and I can only hope he’ll run out of both before he does serious damage to Weaver’s body.

Because Weaver isn’t fighting back. He’s deflecting the blows as best he can, but he isn’t even trying to land a punch. He’s letting my father beat the hell out of him.

Maybe because he feels guilty for what he did years ago, maybe out of concern for me, but either way, it’s not right.

My dad is the one to blame. He’s the one who’s drunk at seven in the morning—I could smell the whiskey on him as he stumbled and dragged me down—and he’s the one who attacked Weaver.

“Stop!” I scream again, crying out in pain as I force myself to my feet, sending my useless arm swaying in an agonizing arc before it returns to my side.

---