Page 78 of Rematch
I followed a few steps behind him to the dark, empty parking lot.
Oblivious to my presence, he dug in his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Shit,” he muttered as he patted his pockets.
“Need a light?” I asked.
“Yeah, actually,” he said as he turned around. Instead of a match, he was met with the mouth of my gun. The metal slappedhim straight across his face. Caught off guard, he stumbled backwards. “Ah, what the-”
I kicked him in the stomach, sending him to the ground. “You put your hands on my fucking brother? A fucking gun on his head?” I kicked him again, this time in the ribs. “Must be out of your goddamn mind.”
“Guerra? Guerra! Guerra, wait! I- I can-”
My shoe went into his mouth, shutting him up. “Too late for that shit!”
He tried to wiggle backwards - away from me. “No, no, it wasn’t my idea! I swear! I was just following-”
I grabbed his ankle and yanked him towards me.
His torso flew back, and his head smacked against the concrete.
Kneeling over him, I raised my gun up over my head and brought it down against his face. “I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck.” I snarled, hitting him with every word. The red pulsing around my vision grew around my view, blurring out his face until the color was the only thing I saw. I couldn’t see underneath it, so my other senses kicked in.
Hearing his pleas and screams. Feeling his blood splatter against my hands and face.
Eventually, the former stopped. But, my fists didn’t. I kept hitting him over and over and over again. I wanted him to feel every ounce of pain he made my brother feel. More if possible.
No one was ever going to hurt someone I cared about. Not again. Losing one person was enough. I couldn’t afford to lose another.
“Max,” Wesley’s voice pulled out of the red-rimmed hole I’d fallen into. “Max, stop.”
A hand wrapped around my wrist, stopping it from slamming against Cloyd’s face. The grip tightened as my arm instinctively tried to break out of the grasp and go for him again.
“Stop,” Tysir repeated. “It’s done, Max.”
I blinked a few times, unblurring my vision. As it cleared, I was met with a horrific sight. Underneath me, Clyde’s face was no longer recognizable. All of his bones were crushed inward. Blood oozed from the holes on his face. What I could make of his mouth was scrunched up in anguish.
Clyde was dead.
Chapter 31
Audrey
“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” I scolded my father as I walked into the kitchen. A bouquet of mouth-watering scents greeted me as I’d stepped into the house and, just as I suspected, Dad was standing over the stove, wearing his favorite apron.
“A little fainting spell and low blood sugar isn’t gonna keep me from cooking for Thanksgiving,” he replied as he glanced up at me.
“Dad, the doctor said you need to take it easy.”
“I have been,” he insisted. “Right, Rashad?”
“Yes,” Papa’s voice carried through the open doorway leading to the dining room. He poked his head around the corner and smiled at me. “Don’t worry, Audrey. He’s been taking lots of breaks.”
“Which is why dinner still isn’t ready yet,” Dad explained. “If I would’ve gone full speed, everything would’ve been finished and laid out by now.”
Papa shot a sharp look at his back. “Hush up, so you can finish that last dish.” His expression changed within a second as his eyes returned to me. “You go wash up, baby girl. By the time you come back down, the food should be done. If you want, you can help me set the table.”
Nodding, I turned on my heel and headed upstairs. I took a nice, hot shower, rinsing the busy day off of my body.
After my shower, I threw on a comfortable sweatshirt and yoga pants. Our family never really dressed up for Thanksgiving. Most of our day used to be spent in the kitchen cooking together. But with me being low in seniority at my new job, I had to work the day shift. I couldn’t complain though. At least I still had the night to spend Thanksgiving dinner with my family.
