Page 24 of Quiet Rage
Dante flexes his fist, wincing. “That motherfucker’s got a hard head.”
Then he notices me and jerks his chin. “This guy should know.”
I’m too drunk and too fucked in the head tonight to catch on. “Huh?”
They laugh before moving closer. “Frank. Has a convenience store? You already laid into him, right?” Dante flexes his fist again, chuckling. “That fucker has a head made of solid rock.”
“And he needs his kid to defend him,” Nico adds with a laugh.
This time, I catch on. “How did she do that?” I ask as my blood starts to pump faster. She’s not stupid enough to get in between them and her dad, right?
“The usual.” Dante waves it off, scoffing. “Begging us to stop, all that shit.”
“Like, it didn’t take one slap to knock her on her ass,” Nico snickers—like there’s something to be proud of. Like he shouldn’t be ashamed of himself for hitting a woman. Especially one who’s so small and defenseless.
But she still stood up to them. Fuck, there shouldn’t be this sense of pride swelling in my chest. She means nothing to me. I shouldn’t care.
Somebody needs to tell that to my heart, because it’s thumping hard and making blood rush in my head. He put his hands on her. He hurt her. After everything she went through before I went to get her this morning, she had to suffer more. She had to watch the store get torn up. She had to watch them beat the shit out of her dad.
But there’s nothing I can do about it now. So it doesn’t matter how clearly I can see myself taking both of them by the backs of their heads and smashing their faces against the bar. It won’t change anything.
They must get the idea I don’t think the whole thing is as funny as they do, since they exchange a look before going back to where they started drinking. That sounds like a good idea to me. I drain my glass again and slam it down this time, signaling for another. I can handle my liquor. And now I have something else I need to drink away—the thought of her being in pain, curled up onthe floor, watching and knowing there’s nothing she could do to help. I need to stop thinking about it, seeing it in my head. I need to drink her away.
The problem is, I don’t think we have enough liquor behind the bar to make that happen. The glasses in front of me are starting to blur until I can’t tell how many are there. Instead of waning, my anger and discomfort are louder and more intense than ever.
And when I imagine what probably happened to Tamson’s face, I want to break those fucking beer bottles and jam them into those fuckers’ necks.
I have to get out of here. Something bad is going to happen if I don’t. Somehow, I’m still holding onto a shred of sense, but I don’t know how much longer that will be true. I need to leave now, before it’s too late and I do something I can’t take back.
I could go home, but that’s not what I have on my mind when I pull out my phone to get an Uber. Even the screen is blurry—driving is out of the question. I remember Tamson’s address, though, and I plug it in as my destination. I already went without sleep last night because of her. I’m not going to sacrifice another night wondering how badly she was hurt. I know anything I imagine will probably be worse than reality.
It had better be.
The car doesn’t take long to arrive, and I’m glad to escape into the dark silence before we pull away from the front of the bar. I didn’t realize until now how loud it was in there. The silence is deafening compared to that, but I welcome it. I can hear myself think.
Not that I want to hear my thoughts.
It’s a good thing the driver is honest, because I can’t keep my eyes from closing as we make the journey from one side of town to the other. The fatigue is starting to catch up with me, but the whiskey is not helping. I just have to see her, that’s all. I have to make sure she’s okay.
Darkness closes in around me, but I’m ripped out of it a second later. At least, that’s what it feels like. “You all right back there?” the driver asks, stirring me out of my drunken haze. I blink hard, looking out the window at the house where I left Tamson this morning. I slept most of the way here.
Mumbling my thanks, I climb out from the backseat. The crisp night air helps clear my head a little, and I take deep breaths on my way up the front walk. It’s not a bad house, though it’s maybe a third of the size of mine. Nicer than anything else on the block, from the looks of it, but that’s not saying much.
I hear the doorbell ringing inside the house, leaving my thumb pressed against the button until I see the shadow of somebody walking toward me on the other side, through a curtain over the glass. A small body. Tamson?
Not Tamson, but this woman could be her in another thirty years or so. If she decides to make drinking her hobby, anyway. I know I’m not the person to judge somebody for that right now—I might be drunk, but my brain is still working, slowly. She might have been pretty once, but now she’s ruined, with pasty skin and dark-circled eyes that peer at me, wary. “Who are you? What do you want?” she asks before looking over her shoulder at a big clock on the wall. “Do you know what time it is?”
Did I ask? “I’m here to see Tamson. Is she home?”
I know she is. Where else would she be?
“Who’s asking?”
Fuck this. “I don’t have time to play games with you, lady.” She has no choice but to let me into the house when I push the door open fully. She’s as small as her daughter, and as weak. “Which room is hers? I just want to see her.”
“Upstairs,” she tells me, more than a little sour. At least she doesn’t threaten to call the cops. “Second door on the right.”
She didn’t even need to say that, since the only door on the left is a bathroom. There’s a light coming from underneath the second door, and I hear what sounds like a TV show playing on the other side. Canned laughter rings out before I knock, then try the knob. It’s unlocked.
