Trailing his old, crusty Miata, I gas the engine and shoot up beside the driver’s side. “Pull the fuck over, mother fucker.”
His eyes widen in surprise for a split second before he gives me another bird. Rage tears through me. I coast closer to his car and kick the door. My bike swivels, and a blaring horn from an oncoming car crashes through the fog of anger casing my brain.
I hit the brakes and dart behind his car. Following closely, I let the fury simmer until he comes to a stop at a red light. Then I’m pulling my helmet from my head and marching toward him.
“Get the fuck out, tough guy!” I bang my helmet against his—now—rolled up window. Which is about so damn funny. The car’s top is down. I lean over the window and stare down. “I said, get the fuck out.”
He has a choice: ignore me and continue on to his shit job where he gets to tell a story to his co-workers about the “crazy dude on a bike.” Or man up and confront the crazy dude on a bike.
I guess his pride gets the better of him, because he yanks off his seatbelt and pulls the door handle. The door swings wide and nails me dead-on in the knees. Mother fu—
“You want a piece of this, you little shit.” He’s on me, jerking me up by my shirt collar. I didn’t realize how big he was, sitting in that tiny ass car. But dude is a Neanderthal.
Recovering quickly, I elbow his ribs and tussle out of his hold. His “oomph” follows him down as he smacks against the car.
Everything in me is taut and raring to go—but I’m not about to destroy this guy. It’s about pain. The physical kind that will deaden the endless loop of all-consuming emotional ache. This guy just happens to be the one…this day.
“You cocksucker—” His fist lands a hard punch to my jaw.
My only thought: I deserve this—right before contact.
Pain explodes across my face. Travels down my neck. It’s white-hot, and the flicker of lights black out my vision for a second. I blink back the water in my eyes, my nose on fire. The tangy, metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, but my tongue is too numb to feel for a missing tooth.
Before he’s able to get a second good punch in, a whoop whoop buzzes through the whooshing and ringing in my ears. A cop car pulls up beside us.
Hell. Jacquie’s not going to be happy about this one.
“Over three months.” My parole officer leans back in her chair. “I haven’t had to bail you out for fighting in over three months. Mind telling me what the heck happened this morning to change that?”
I set the icepack down on the floor, hiding my smile. Jacquie rarely curses. Never, actually. The fact that she’s upset enough to use “heck” says something. She’s pissed.
Covering my smile further with a cough, I sit back in the red cushioned chair and catch her gaze, then shrug. My shoulder twinges with pain. That guy really nailed me good. “Road rage?”
Her delicate features screw up, and her nostrils flare. She smooths back her already perfectly slicked ponytail and says in a measured tone, “I can talk to the public defender about getting you Judge Matthews. Maybe. I’ll put in a request. But, Boone, no promises this time. We’ve used up any trips to Stoney already…twice. That won’t get you out of jail time this go around.”
My parole officer/counselor/keep-my-ass-out-of-jail guardian, Jacquie, has taken on a lot with my case. I owe her more than I can ever repay. A muscle ticks in my jaw as I grit my teeth. Shame wipes away the rest of my cocky smile.
The fight wouldn’t have happened had I not missed my “meeting” last night. The secret kind. The only kind I’ve found that helps. I was starting to feel too assured, getting too comfortable—I won’t let it happen again.
I run a hand through my hair and nod. “I know, and thanks. I’ll do some extra community service—”
“You’ll do a lot more than that.” She sits forward. “That rehab facility
you love so much? You’re going to volunteer there. Full time.”
My mouth pops open. “But my job…”
“In-between work. After work. Whenever you’re not working.” She raises a blond eyebrow. “I have a counselor friend there. A real counselor,” she stresses. I want to tell her she’s been more of a counselor to me than any of the rest, but I keep my mouth shut. She’s really fuming. “You can take the anger management class offered there, too. Judge Matthews will like that. And honestly, I should have had you in there from the start. I can’t give you the help you truly need, Boone.”
The help I truly need. I huff out a long breath. “I didn’t touch that guy, Jacquie. I didn’t lay a hand on him.”
“No, because that wouldn’t do it for you, would it?” Her gaze sharpens on me. “If you keep looking for the punishment you feel you deserve, you’re going to find it.” Her thin mouth turns down. “Eventually, you’ll find what you’re seeking, and you won’t walk away that time.”
I feel like I’ve been hit all over again. Jacquie may not be violent, or raise her voice, or even utter a foul word…but she doesn’t hold her punches, either. She nails you right where it hurts. The truth.
I want to assure her that I’m not seeking this. That I don’t believe I deserve to die. But we both know that’d be a lie. It’s the reason why I dropped my “real” counselor, and instead continued to meet with my parole officer each week, even after I was released to once a month check-ins. I got tired of hearing it—of never being able to escape the reality.
Jacquie, at least, let’s me be. She knows that I’m not ready. I’m not one of those people who are blinded by denial; I choose it willingly.