Page 42 of His Best Friend's Baby

But they backed him up against a truck and the blows came hard and fast. His lip split and his eye got hot and swollen. There was a punch, a sharp pop and a crunch, then blood flooded his throat from his broken nose.

Soon, the pain of his body matched the pain he carried in his head and gut and the equilibrium was blissful.

I deserve this.

These men weren’t strangers. They were Mitch and Dave and Artie. They were the families he’d ruined. They were the lives he’d destroyed.

If I’d only agreed with Mitch, just one last time…

“Hey, asshole!” Mike thrust his sweaty red face against Jesse’s. He grabbed the collar of Jesse’s shirt and yanked him around like a rag doll. “Where’s your smart mouth now, huh?”

Jesse didn’t want to talk, he wanted the beating to keep going. So he smiled, blood filled his mouth and he spit it in Mike’s face.

Mike growled, wiped the blood and spittle from his face with his shoulder and threw Jesse back against the truck. His head cracked on the metal and the pain skittered through his brain and he embraced it, wrapped his whole body around it and smiled. He sagged against the vehicle, his body suddenly heavy.

Mike wrapped his thick fingers around Jesse’s neck and squeezed, blocking off the blood in his carotid artery.

Good. Yes.

Mike’s big, hammy fist went back and Jesse knew this would end things. If he woke up from this punch, he’d be surprised. He lifted his chin just to improve the odds.

But before Mike could get his whole weight behind his fist a truck pulled into the gravel lot, headlights slicing the night to ribbons. Mike dropped Jesse’s neck and stepped back, shielding his eyes from the bright lights trained on them.

Jesse sagged.

“Come on, Mike. Let’s get out of here,” one of Mike’s friends said and they were already sliding backward into the shadows past the light.

“We’re not done,” Mike growled at him.

“Yes, we are,” Jesse muttered and spit blood.

Mike stepped close, as if he might finish that punch after all, but whoever was in the truck got out and slammed his driver side door shut.

It was Mac. Of course.

“Get home, Mike. Before the police get here,” Mac said and Mike, after one last shove, finally stalked off to his friends.

Jesse didn’t turn, he stayed leaning against the truck while his savior walked toward him, his boots crunching on the gravel.

“What the hell are you doing here, Mac?” Jesse asked past the burn of blood in his throat.

“Bailing you out,” Mac said, finally stepping into the light. “Again.”

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Billy called us, said you were getting your ass kicked.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Then why weren’t you fighting back?” Mac asked.

Jesse spit into the gravel again but didn’t say anything.

The answer was as clear as the blood running down his face, and they both knew it.

“Let me get you home. You’re in no shape to drive,” Mac said, standing beside Jesse like a patient watchdog. A guard.

The death wish was gone, vanished under the lights of Mac’s truck. So Jesse nodded and pushed himself toward the passenger side of Mac’s truck.

Jesse rolled his head against the headrest and stared out the window at the night sky.

He was going to be sick tomorrow. Hurt and bruised and battered, but for right now, the fight had freed him from his place on this earth.

He didn’t recognize himself, as if he’d traveled all this way to finally slip his own skin.

“You gonna be sick?” Mac asked.

Jesse shook his head.

“Unroll the window just in case.”

“I’m not going to puke.”

“You always used to say that right before you puked.”

Jesse smiled and cringed at the pull of the cut on his lip.

“I’m not drunk,” he said and could feel Mac’s surprised gaze on the side of his face. “I had a half a beer.”

“What were you doing back there, Jess?” Mac finally asked, plucking the question from the thousand unasked ones that filled the cab like spiderwebs.

“I think I was trying to get the shit kicked out of myself.”

“But why?”

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