Page 50 of Our Secrets and Scars

“Ain’t no good time to be had when that son of a bitch is here,” he growls, white-knuckling his tumbler of amber liquid. For a brief moment, I worry that he might throw it in Owen’s direction, but I know my uncle better than to think he’d ever let good bourbon go to waste, no matter how much hatred he harbors for someone.

“Looks like he’s got eyes for your girl, too.”

My head snaps in the direction I last saw Violet, but she’s not there. I swing my panicked eyes around the room until I find her standing alone by the bar, fingers tapping on the sticky countertop. Her eyes are trained on the floor so intently that she doesn’t see Owen stalking toward her with two drinks in his hands.

I stand, and my chair goes skidding across the floor. It hits a group of guys standing behind me who yell something, but I don’t pay them any attention as my strides swallow the space between Violet and me.

But I don’t get to her fast enough.

Owen has already reached her, and she’s taking large swallows from the glass he slipped into her hand just seconds ago. And maybe that doesn’t seem like a big deal, but I’ve known him a long time. Long enough to know that most of the women he’s had in his bed, he only managed to get there by crushing a pill into their drinks.

After all, date rape doesn’t exist when your dad is the chief of police.

My gut twists as I watch Violet stagger backward, her face a picture of pure panic as she tastes something unfamiliar on her tongue. But she’s trapped between the bar and Owen’s forbidding frame. He’s moving closer to her, touching her hair, stroking his fingers down her face, and stepping into her body so that she has no room to move at all.

I grip him by the shoulder and haul him off her.

“Fletcher,” Violet breathes, her voice thick with both awe and relief.

But the significance of what she just called me doesn’t even register because fury rages world wars in my veins. All I know is the red mist of anger settling around me and the taste of bloodthirst in my mouth.

My fist comes up, swinging wildly in the direction of Owen’s jaw. But it doesn’t connect.

Mack stops the punch before it lands, blocking it with his arm. “Think about what you’re doing, son.”

Owen stands behind my uncle, the shittiest of smirks on his face, and it’s all I can do not to spit at him. But Mack demands my attention, stepping slightly to the side to block my view of Owen so that all I can see is my uncle’s eyes as he implores me to calm myself down.

“Some chick saw him slip something into your girl’s drink. Security’s gonna get him. But throwing your fists around ain’t gonna get your ass anywhere but thrown back in a cell, understand?”

I nod, my chest heaving as I fight to control my anger.

I’ve never been a violent man. Even in prison, the one fight I got into was only out of pure necessity. Because if you have any hope of surviving in a place like that, showing weakness isn’t an option, and backing down is a death sentence.

If someone calls you names, you swing. If someone steals something from you, you swing. If someone puts their hands on you, you swing, and then you swing again.

The first and only fight I got into was the day after I arrived. I was cornered in a stairwell, in the one place where the cameras can’t reach and the guards turn a blind eye. My memory of it is hazy at best, but I remember the glint of a knife as he held it to my throat and the challenge in his eyes as he stared me down.

He beat me until I passed out, but I fought like a fucking soldier the whole way down. With every pummel of his fist into my face, I smiled through the blood pouring from my mouth. When he sent his knee soaring into my stomach, I stood back up and broke his nose.

He didn’t use his knife. Guess it was only there as a scare tactic and not a weapon, to see if I’d recoil at the threat of a stab wound. I didn’t.

So, it didn’t matter that I lost. Not really. All that mattered was that I’d stood up for myself, and afterward, I was treated mostly with respect. Kept my head down. Stayed out of trouble. Memories are long in prison, and first impressions last a lifetime. Back down to your first fight, and you’ll make an already miserable life a million times worse for yourself.

But the point is, even in an environment that fostered violence and aggression, I never lost control of myself the way I have done tonight.

Watching the panic in Violet’s eyes as she realized that her drink didn’t taste the way it should have flicked a switch inside me that I didn’t know existed until tonight. I have never felt such rage, such pure, unadulterated fury. And if Mack hadn’t stopped me, I’d have hit Owen again and again, consequences be damned.

“Your girl needs to go home, son,” Mack says as Violet sways on her high-heeled shoes, her eyes cloudy and unfocused. “Go. Take care of her and make sure she’s okay. I’ll deal with everything here.”

I say nothing but nod once and take Violet into my arms with minimal effort. Her face finds my neck, burrowing into me as I carry her out of the bar and into a waiting cab. She’s still conscious, the drugs not having taken full effect yet, but her words are beginning to slur, and her eyelids are growing heavy. I feel them fluttering against my skin as she battles to keep them open, like butterflies beating their wings.

The cab stops outside the tattoo studio, and once more, I take her into my arms.

“It’s okay, little one,” I whisper into her hair as I let us into my apartment and carry her straight into my bedroom. “You’re safe here, I promise.”

She groans as I lay her on the bed, her head lolling heavily to one side.

“I need to take off your shoes and dress, is that okay?” No answer. “Is that okay, Violet?” I ask again.

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