Page 51 of Savage Lover

“She said let go,” a male voice interjects.

Fucking Johnny Verger. He’s shouldering his way over to us, playing the chivalrous hero. He’s got that surly look on his face that tells me he’s spoiling for a fight again. I’m pleased to see that his nose still looks swollen, with two wing-like bruises extending out under his eyes.

“How’s your face, Johnny?” I ask him, without letting go of Camille’s arm.

“Better than yours is gonna be,” he snarls.

A crowd is gathering around us. I can see Bella and Beatrice on one side, still wearing their bikinis and nothing else. Bella’s face is alight with excitement, anticipating the violence to come.

Camille’s eyes dart back and forth between Johnny and me.

“I don’t need your help,” she says to Johnny.

“This fuckstick needs to be taught a lesson,” Johnny says. “About keeping his hands to himself.”

“Maybe you should teach your girlfriend that lesson,” I sneer at him. “She seems to put her hands . . . and her mouth . . . anywhere she wants . . .”

Johnny roars and swings both fists at me at once.

I let go of Camille now, shoving her out of the way so she doesn’t get hit in the crossfire. In the time it takes to push her down on the nearest couch, Johnny hits me hard in the left ear with one of those meaty fists. I hear a popping sound, and bright lights explode in front of my eyes.

I fall on my back and Johnny tries to jump on top of me, but I kick my heels hard into his gut, flinging him backward. Then I leap up again, without even touching the ground with my hands. I’m running after him, while he’s still stumbling backward. I hit him twice in the face and once in the body.

The blood lust is on me. I can barely even feel my fists making contact with his flesh, though I can see each impact. I want to hit him harder and harder. I want to pound him into mush.

Johnny swings back at me. I dodge the first punch. The second hits me across the jaw. The pain is shocking, blinding.

I fucking love it. This is the only thing that feels real. The only thing that feels genuine. I hate this shithead, and he hates me. We want to tear each other apart.

Beating him proves that I’m better than him—smarter, faster, stronger.

I’ve killed men before, when I had to. That’s work, and I don’t enjoy it.

Fighting is different. It’s pure fun. And I’m really fucking good at it. One-on-one I almost never lose.

Johnny is a big dude. A worthy adversary. When he hits me again, square in the chest, I could almost respect him.

I’m still going to take him apart.

I watch for his next haymaker, then I duck under it and I boot him again in the chest, sending him crashing backward into Levi’s grandmother’s china cabinet. The glass doors shatter, broken dishes raining down on Johnny’s shoulders.

That’s when the Samoan hits me with a punch that feels like a redwood log upside the head. I didn’t see it coming, and there was no way to brace for it. It knocks my brain halfway out of my head, so I don’t even feel myself falling to the ground. One second I’m standing, the next my face is pressed into the filthy carpet.

I hear a scream—possibly Camille. The Samoan gives me a couple kicks to the body that rearrange some organs. That would hurt pretty bad if I were still fully conscious.

All I hear is Levi shouting, “I said no fighting in the house!”

Then I fall into blackness.

I wake up in some kind of glassed-in porch. I can see the corner of a neon sign overhead, and the edge of a high-rise. The rest is just black summer sky, dense with clouds. The humidity is so thick it’s like gauze.

I’m about to drift away again, until I hear the rumble of thunder. It pulls me back to consciousness.

Somebody is washing my face. They’re using a rough washcloth. Their touch isn’t rough—it’s gentle and careful, cleaning blood off my aching flesh.

My mother used to wash my face like this when I was sick.

She’s the only person who ever saw me like this—helpless. Vulnerable.

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