Page 326 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

He doesn’t move.

Not a flinch, not a twitch, nothing. It’s as if he hasn’t even noticed the metal against his skin. I drop my voice low, and force every word out steady. “Especially when I show them the shoes you left outside my house.”

Addy’s sobs are simmering down, but I doubt she’s coherent enough to hear what I’m saying. But I go up on my tiptoes anyway and lay a hand on Briar’s shoulders, nearly meeting him eye for eye as I press the flat of the blade against his throat in warning.

Okay,hardlymeeting him eye for eye. But I’m trying really fucking hard.

“How you broke into my house. How youwatchedme.”

“That won’t—” His thick voice cuts off, and he glances away from me. “You know that’s not?—”

“The same as raping someone?” I whisper furiously, leaning in even closer so he’s forced to look at me. “I dunno, Briar. I kinda feel it’s one of the first rungs on the motherfucking ladder.”

His eyes touch me then, and for the briefest, craziest moment, Iknowhe’s not a bad person. But see, that thought has nothing to do with common sense, logic, or facts. That’s my fucking vagina talking again.

Briar is a criminal. He dodged the law once, but I’ve vowed to myself and Addison that it will never happen again. If that means he spends a few months cleaning trash on the side of the road instead of hard time in jail, so be it.

At least his record won’t reflect the perfect imitation high schooler he shows the world. There will be a black mark on his name.

Until his father washes it off, of course.

Briar ducks, grabs the backpack off the floor, and backs up toward the door.

“This isn’t over,” he growls. He stabs a finger in Addison’s direction, but doesn’t take his eyes off me. He gives my switchblade a contemptuous smirk, and then he’s gone.

My legs give out, but I don’t feel anything when I hit the floor. Moments later, Addy’s by my side. She throws her arms over me and starts crying again.

I would have joined her, but I have no tears.

My fury boiled them all away.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Briar

As soon as I’m in my Mustang, I take out my phone. My hands are trembling so bad, it takes three attempts before I can call Marcus. I put the car into gear and peel out of Addy’s driveaway, one hand on the wheel and the other holding my phone to my ear.

“Pick up, pick up.” I push the words through gritted teeth.

He answers on the next ring. “Yeah?”

“You at home?”

“The fuck else would I be?”

He’s pissed off, but I can’t blame him. “Listen, I need you to do something for me.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. It could have gone so many ways—he could have laughed in my ear and put down the phone. He could have cursed me to the nth generation.

But Marcus was, and always will be, my closest friend.

“Tell me what you need, bro.”

As I’m waiting for the golf estate’s boom to rise, I re-read the message my father sent last night. Judging from the time stamp, and if I remember correctly, I was probably on my third game of pool and my sixth beer. No wonder I didn’t hear it come through.

We need to talk.

11:45am

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