Page 83 of Something like Love

I’ve seen Quinn fight before, and this fight is purely one-sided. He’s accepting each strike, almost embracing it, like it’s punishment he deserves.

As Tristan hits him a third time, blood trickling from a wound to his eye, I know this has to stop.

“Fight back!” Tristan yells, clenched fists raised.

But Quinn shakes his head, wiping his bloodied mouth with the back of his hand. “No.”

“Fight me!” Tristan implores, ready to strike, but I reach for his arm, holding on tight.

“Enough, Tristan. Enough.”

The contact stuns him, and his muscles slacken under my hand.

“Enough,” I say one last time, and thankfully, he listens, dropping his bloodied fists to his sides.

But Quinn just refuels the fire by spitting, “Dad was right. You are pathetic, getting everyone to fight your battles.”

“Quinn!” I reprimand, but I don’t have time to elaborate as my body vibrates, but it’s not me who’s trembling. It’s Tristan.

I know I have roughly five seconds to defuse this situation because if I don’t, Tristan will do something he’ll regret for the rest of his life.

It happens in a heartbeat, and I foresee every move.

I release Tristan’s arm, and spinning around quickly, I slap him—hard.

He stands stunned as he cradles his reddening cheek, but before he has a chance to speak, I charge over to Quinn, who also looks stunned, and I give his cheek the same treatment as Tristan’s.

His hand also flies to his cheek, and as he opens his mouth to no doubt yell at me, I yank on the scruff of his collar and drag him across the grass.

He comes willingly because he knows better than to provoke me when my temper has exploded. I won’t see reason. I don’t know where I’m going, but I do know that I need to separate the two brothers and talk to Quinn.

Is he drunk or just plain crazy to provoke Tristan that way?

Maybe he’s both.

Either way, I need him to tell me what the hell is going on.

I’m thankful when I see a small, secluded boathouse ahead because I’m about to implode from my raging adrenaline.

Quickening my step, I kick the door open and pull Quinn in, releasing my hold on his collar as I slam the door shut behind me.

“What is the matter with you?” I scream as I turn around and stalk toward him.

“I think you’re the one with the problem,” he says, moving his jaw from left to right. “Tristan really does fight like a pussy compared to you.”

“This isn’t funny, you asshole!” I yell, barely refraining from slapping his face once again. “Tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Why don’t you ask Tristan?”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

But I know exactly what it means.

Quinn is jealous. But this stems way beyond jealousy. This has got to do with his past.

“Why didn’t you fight Tristan?”

Quinn only shrugs, not answering my question, so I decide to make him answer. “What, you’re jealous? Is that it?”

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