Page 2 of Twisted Collide

I have him by the throat. He isn’t going anywhere. Now that she’s safe and out of the way, I unleash my anger.Allof it. Years and years of pent-up frustration. From being forced to do things I don’t want to do. To being fucked over. To being raised by a shitty father.

I’d never met a piece of shit more worthy of my wrath. A grin dances across my cheeks as I form a fist. With a dark chuckle, I do something I know I shouldn’t.

I throw the first punch.

My hand makes contact with a sickening crack. It isn’t his victim I see. It’s Molly. My little sister. The mere thought is enough to send another surge of protective instinct through me.

I hate bullies. I hate people who pick on others and make them feel small.

And I especially—more than anything—hate any scumbag that would lay a hand on a woman without permission.

It doesn’t matter that this girl isn’t Molly.

I continue to punch, over and over, until he drops to the floor like an anchor. He writhes in place, begging me to stop. I barely register his words, following up my fists with a kick of my feet.

Everything is hazy. I don’t even notice the screams around me. I don’t notice anything. Not the hands pulling me off him. Not the kids yelling that the cops are coming.

All I can do is feel. The chaotic thumps of my heart as adrenaline surges through my veins. The delicious satisfaction each punch and kick brings me. The sight of this handsy fucker on the floor—and the knowledge that I’ll scare him so badly that he’ll never do it again.

“Thank you.”

It’s barely more than a whisper, but it thrusts me back into reality. I turn to the girl this fucker took advantage of, spinning myhead away when I notice she’s in the middle of straightening the skirt bunched around her waist.

The situation comes to me piece by piece like a flip book, each flashing at me one after another. The sirens blaring. The footsteps pounding up the steps. And the feel of two cold hands as they jerk my arms around my back and drag me away.

“Thank you,” the girl says again, louder this time.

It’s enough to make the officer pause. I nod once to her as the cop clicks a heavy pair of cuffs around my wrists.

Slowly, the realization begins to settle in.

I might’ve taken down a guy who deserves it, but that doesn’t mean I won’t pay for my good deed.

I can’t believethis is happening.

Actually, I can.

If luck were a spectrum, I’d sit somewhere above Tsutomu Yamaguchi (who survived one atomic bomb only to be killed by another) and below Roy Sullivan (hit by lightning seven times, but at least he survived). Life dealt me a bad hand. So, I barely flinch when the cops shove me into a patrol vehicle to wait as the girl gives her account of what happened.

Ten minutes later, he pulls me out of the car and frees me from the cuffs. I rub my wrists, well aware I’m fortunate to not spend the night in jail.

The guy I beat up agrees not to press charges, a miracle considering I mangled that asshat. I got lucky tonight, that’s for sure. (See? Above Yamaguchi and below Sullivan.)

I can’t even imagine what would have happened if I had been arrested. Coach would bench me, and my father . . . Fuck, I’d never live it down.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t experience my own form of prison.

The cops make me call my father. They ignore every argumentI can think of. That I’m eighteen and, legally, am not obligated to call my parents. That I have my phone and am more than capable of finding a ride. That Nick would let me crash here for the night.

None of it passes their litmus test, and who am I to fight it? Alas, small-town politics rear its ugly head yet again.

I make my way to the front, waiting for my father’s arrival and subsequent disapproval. He sounded pretty fucking pissed that he has to pick me up tonight, but I’m sure it has less to do with the errand and more to do with the stain on his image.

I know how I look, standing outside Nick’s house, hands tucked in my pockets, with a police officer babysitting me. That’ll send dear old dad right over the edge.

I purse my lips but don’t speak another word to the cop beside me. Instead, I tap my fingers against my upper thighs as we wait.

I’ll never hear the end of it. Not now. Not ever. Dad has never been one to keep quiet about his plans for me. He expects me to become a hockey legend. Wayne Gretzky, Bobby Orr, and Gordie Howe rolled into one. If I somehow manage to screw that up, I’ll be tossed aside. Disowned. And he’ll absolutely see this as a move that could’ve fucked that future up.

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