Page 28 of Forty

“And turn your back.”

“Yes, sir!”

Oh, this is not good. I writhe and kick, but all I manage to do is flip myself off his shoulder to go plummeting into the dirt. I yelp as my hip bone slams into the ground hard.

All this man-handling is getting old. My stomach’s heaving. My pride’s not doing so great either.

“What the hell, Forty?”

“What the hell doyouthink you’re doing, Nevaeh?” Forty hauls me to my feet.

The soldier act is gone. He’s dropped his emotionless mask, and I’m hypnotized. Little zings light up my chest. There’s my man. The one who patiently stood waist-deep in the frigid Luckahannock while I played Tarzan on an old rope swing, catching me or fishing me out of the river every time because I couldn’t swim, and I didn’t want anyone to know.

Who popped my cherry in a hotel room in Maynard that must have cost him an entire paycheck from Big George’s garage.

Who rescued me from Liam Devers in Freshman English.

Anger and hurt and something else, something raw, war in Forty’s eyes. He’s so handsome. So achingly similar to the boy I loved so damn hard.

“You just won’t listen, will you?” Forty growls, his grip tightens on my shoulders, but unlike Heavy, his fingers dig in.

“No,” I say. It comes out husky, like a whisper. “I won’t.”

“How do I make you listen?” It’s like he’s asking himself, and the sheer bafflement in his voice makes the corner of my lips twitch. He’s right. I am a hopeless case.

“I do what I want, Forty. You know that.”

“I don’t know you at all.” The words sting, even though they’re true. I lash out on instinct.

“Hard to get to know people when you’ve got your head so far up your ass.”

“Why don’t you watch your mouth, Nevaeh?”

“Why don’t you make me?” I smirk at him then, the snottiest, brattiest smirk I can manage when my butt’s dusty, my hip aches, my spaghetti straps have both fallen down, and his hands are cutting off the circulation to my arms.

For a good five seconds, he’s at a loss for words. And then he nods to himself as if he’s decided something, and—oh, crap—he’s grabbing me again, and he’s hauling me over to a rickety picnic table a yard or so from the dumpsters.

“Remember that you asked for it,” he says.

Asked for what?

Forty lowers himself to the bench, and he drags me over his knees, knocking me off balance, and then I’m draped there, his knees digging into my stomach, my hair swinging around my face. I can’t see anything. His lap’s so broad, and I’m so short, my legs are sticking straight out.

Is he going tospankme?

“Works for Dizzy,” he mutters, and then his hand wallops my behind. Hard. My teeth snap shut, and I taste copper. I bit my tongue.

“What are you doing?” I buck, and his arm tightens over my shoulder blades like a bar of steel.

“Stay still.” He nails me again, this time on the other cheek, and this one hurts more than it surprises me. It reminds me of falling down when you’re roller skating, that kind of blunt whack that clears your sinuses.

Am I okay with this? We used to play around with rough stuff when we were together. We didn’t have safe words or anything. Didn’t know we were supposed to.

I could just say stop. He would. I’m ninety-nine percent sure. But then this would be over. And I don’t want that.

Thwack. I sniff back the tears that spring to my eyes. I can’t believe this is happening. I jerk, but all I can do is raise my hips and give him a better target as his hand comes down again. I shriek this time.

I kick, but I can only twist so far before he forces me straight again. I’m a doll, and he’s Goliath.

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