Filed to story: Brace Face Betty Drama Story
I fill up the bike at the gas station closest to the bar, and a guy honks at me, trying to get me to hurry. I want to grind my knuckles into his face. Hit him until he begins to cry like a little bitch. I wanna break his fucking neck.
I’ve been angry for most of my teen years-at Gary, for using his strength and his size over me. At Jackie for keeping me from seeing Ben. At Maeve, Rhonda and a whole line-up of other social workers, who have all made my life way harder than it needed to be. At my mom for fucking dying. But I have never, never been this angry before, spilling over with rage, panting and breathless, rendered mentally incompetent because of it.
I sit on the bike in a parking spot, stewing over everything, thoughts like the blades of a blender, whipping around so fast and so sharp that the inside of my skull is in chaos. Five minutes later, the punk in the white button-down and the pressed khakis who honked at me emerges from the gas station, and I climb off the bike, heading toward him with a tire iron in my hand.
He runs across the gas station forecourt, bolting for his Durango. “What the fuck?
You fucking psycho!”
He dives into the vehicle, slamming the door and locking it swiftly behind him.
I’m three seconds away from smashing the tire iron into his window when the attendant comes rushing out of the building with a phone in his hand. “Hey! Hey, asshole! Get out of here before I call the fucking cops!”
The taunt sits heavy on the tip of my tongue, burning like battery acid:
Go ahead, motherfucker. Call them. See what happens.
But I know how that’ll go. They’ll show up here en force, tires screeching as they peel onto the forecourt, guns already drawn, aimed at my fucking head. They’ll cart me off in cuffs. It’ll be on the news. ‘
Local thug arrested for attempted assault.’ All of Ravenshire will know about it before lunchtime, and Betty will be hysterical. She won’t forgive me. I told her I could handle the truth from her. I can’t let her down at the very first hurdle by pulling this kind of stupid shit.
My pulse pounds like a runaway train in my temples as I stalk back to the bike and climb on, starting the engine and roaring out of the station.
This is not good.
This is not fucking good.
I need to do something.
At the bar, I find Monty in his office, going over surveillance footage at his desk. His expression darkens when I burst in without knocking. “The fuck’s got you so riled up?” he asks, halting the feed on the screen.
“I need a favor,” I grind out. I’m calmer than I was when I had the tire iron in my hand, but I am a far cry from actually being calm.
“Does this favor involve murder? ‘Cause you look like you’re about to kill someone.”
“Maybe,” I say grimly.
“Jesus. It’s only Monday morning, Marcus. Can’t we at least make it to Thursday evening without a need for homicide?” He jerks his head at the seat opposite him. “Sit. Tell me what’s happened.”
I don’t want to sit but I know he won’t appreciate me prowling up and down in his office with a face like thunder, so I slump down in the chair and lean forward, holding my head in my hands.
“You even shower this morning? You look like shit,” he says.
“No. I did not shower. I had other things on my mind.”
“If this has anything to do with that tasty little treat from Ravenshire High that you brought in here the other night, please know I am not going to be happy.”
I roll my eyes. “No. Not her. Another girl. My girlfriend,” I add on the end, gingerly…because I know he’s gonna give me shit for-
“Girlfriend? Since when?” I don’t even get to finish the thought. Monty’s already smirking like the bastard that he is, kicking his feet up on his desk like he’s settling in for a juicy bit of gossip. “You knock her up the first time you stick your dick in her, Moretti? ‘Cause that would be some dumbass bullshit right there.”
“Fuck you, man,” I growl. “My dick isn’t the problem here.”
“But it is a dick problem.”
“Three guys from the Ravenshire football team raped her. It was really fucking bad.”
Monty’s grin takes on a sour, displeased look. “Well. That does sound like a problem, doesn’t it?” He leans forward, swiping his pack of smokes up from the edge of his desk. He lights one, narrowing his eyes at me. “Should never have gotten kicked out of Bellingham, kid. A Bellingham girl would have carved ’em up before letting ’em pull that kinda shit. Ravenshire’s too touchy-feely. Makes the kids too soft to stick up for themselves.”