I trudged through the dirt and wet leaves, keeping my ears peeled for any sound. After I’d run into a tipsy Ben—who admitted he’d lost his date—I’d darted into the woods, towards the parking lot, looking for Tate.
She wasn’t around the bonfire, and it’s not like she had many friends there.
Or anywhere, dickhead.
A loud, guttural moan echoed in the woods, and I twisted my head towards the wail.
What? Shit.
I started running, jumping over logs with my heart pounding so hard that it hurt to breath.
“Why are the guys at our school such dicks?” I heard a voice growl.
Tate.
I turned left and bounded through a mess of fallen branches and wet foliage.
“Shit!” I heard a male voice spout. “You fucking bitch!”
I peeled through the trees and came into a clearing of fallen trees and sawed off tree trunks. My chest heaved with every hard breath as I took in the scene before me.
Tate stood over the crumpled mess of Nate Dietrich as he lay in visible agony on the ground. He had one hand covering his eyes and one holding his crotch.
Motherfucker.
“Tatum!” I barked, more out of the sting of fear than the heat of anger.
If she’d attacked him, it was because she’d been threatened.
He’s dead.
She spun around, and I struggled to keep myself in check. Nate was already subdued, but I caught sight of her ripped tank top strap, and every muscle tensed.
“Did he hurt you?” I asked through nearly clenched teeth.
She placed a hand over her shoulder and torn shirt. “He tried. I’m fine.” She would barely look at me.
I slipped off my shirt and tossed it to her.
“Put this on,” I ordered. “Now.”
She didn’t rush to obey, not that I had expected her to, but my temper was up and God help her if she didn’t do what she was told.
Alone, in the woods. In the dark.
I wanted to throttle her for being so careless.
I walked to Nate, who still lay on the ground. “You have a poor, fucking memory, Dietrich. What did I tell you?” I bent down and got in his face.
My warning to him that day in class clearly hadn’t sunk in.
I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him up before slamming my fist into his stomach. He caved, hunching over, as all of the air was forced out of his body.
And I didn’t stop.
I punched and slammed, hit and gutted Nate Dietrich, pounding on his body and face until he was too done to do anything but take the abuse.
The ache in my hand vibrated through my bones and traveled up my arm as the full force of my temper descended on him.
Lowlife piece of shit!
He was bad news, but I wasn’t, I kept telling myself. There was a difference between Nate and me.
Nate had touched her.
I’d never done that.
He’d sexually harassed her.
My locker room thing was just to mess with her.
She’d told him time after time to stop.
I’d seen her cry, wanting me to stop.
And the more I hit Nate, the more I didn’t see his face anymore, but my own.
“Stop.” I heard Tate yell behind me. “Jared, stop!”
I didn’t want to stop until he was done breathing, but I was getting Tate the hell out of here. Now.
I yanked Nate by the bend of his elbow and threw him to the ground. “This isn’t over,” I promised, not feeling the slightest bit guilty about his bloodied eye, nose, and mouth. Blood lined the inside of his lips, and he lay crumpled on the ground, panting and groaning.
I looked over to Tate, whose eyes looked scared and chest rose and fell in fear.
A fear she didn’t have when I first found her here.
“I’m taking you home.” It wasn’t open for discussion.
“No thanks. I have a ride,” she argued, tipping her chin up.
She has a ride? I wanted to laugh and growl at the same time.
God, I was going to enjoy shutting her up.
“Your ride,” I turned to look at her, “is drunk. Now, unless you’d like to wake up your poor grandmother to come out into the middle of nowhere to get you after your date gets drunk, and you almost get raped—which I’m sure will do wonders for your father trusting you to be alone, by the way—then you’ll get in the goddamn car, Tate.”
I turned to walk towards my car, fully prepared to throw her over my shoulder if I had to.