Page 76 of Resisting Mr. Granville

“Yeah. Shit, I don’t want to hang up, but— Jonathan, do you have your—”

“Open this fucking door, you little bitch. If I have to break it down, I’m gonna hurt you real bad,” Larry threatens.

The door bows.

“Jet, hurry.”

“I’ll call him right now, Kennedy.”

The line disconnects.

The door makes a sickening noise as they both bang into it.

I don’t know what else to do, so I hide behind it so at least if they get the door open, I’ll have a few seconds before they get their hands on me.

Chapter eighteen

Jonathan

Growing up, I was not taught in black and white generalities like, “always treat others how you want to be treated,” or “violence is never the answer.”

Maybe someone is an asshole and doesn't deserve any kindness from you. Maybe violence is all that’ll get your point across.

My parents always understood that people and situations were complex, and what might be the good or right thing to do in one scenario might be the wrong thing in another. Because of that, rather than recite idiotic Target pillow philosophy, they taught me how to actually fucking think.

I was taught to be practical, to be prepared, and not to be a fucking idiot.

I am 0 for 3 when I shove open the door of the apartment Jet told me Kennedy lived in. I’ve never been here before, so I’m not even positive it’s the right place until I see her mother slouched over on the couch with a joint between her fingers and an open beer bottle in her hand.

I was aware of the possibility that I was walking into danger when Kennedy was crying on the phone to Jet. I was also aware of the possibility I was escalating it when I grabbed Dad’s gun out of the safe before I jumped in the car and hurried over here.

Now, I’m a little less worried. Kennedy’s mom is so high, I don’t think she could react if I gave her five minutes to, but I don’t.

She looks up at me, her eyes cloudy and bloodshot. She smiles and points at me. “I know who you are.”

We’ve never met, but I bear a strong enough resemblance to my father that I’m not surprised. “Where is Kennedy?”

She looks at the gun hanging casually at my side, then looks me over. “You look like your daddy. Bet you fuck like him, too.”

Gross.

“I wouldn’t let you lap my cum up off a sidewalk, you filthy fucking hick. Now, where the fuck is Kennedy?”

Fuck this.

I don’t wait for her to answer. The apartment is small, so I raise my gun and walk down the hall to look for her.

The bathroom door is open. That makes me sick to my stomach because I know it’s where Kennedy was hiding out. Her mom on the couch and no boyfriend in sight leads me to some pretty horrifying possibilities.

She’d better fucking be okay.

I shove open the first bedroom door and flick on the light. It must be her room. It looks like hers, but there’s no one inside.

Then I hear smothered cries, sounds of struggle, and a distinctly male grunt from the next room. The door is closed, but not latched. I kick it open. The room is dark, so I flick this light on, too.

My heart sinks when I see Kennedy on the bed pinned beneath a large, disgusting-looking man, arms and legs thrashing as she fights to get him off her.

I snarl, crossing the room in a split second. The light turning on got his attention so he stops pawing at her to look and see what’s going on.

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