His chest swelled, adrenaline kicking into a higher gear. Not too fast. He could still control it, and he wanted what he planned next to be very controlled.
He swung his arm up—the arm draped over his girlfriend’s shoulder—lifting his hand in a right-turn signal. And then he lowered all his fingers but one—that one right there in the middle. It was no longer a right-turn signal, but it was a signal, sending a clear message: Fuck you, motherfucker.
He lowered his hand to Regan’s upper back, slowly tracing the length of her spine with the offensive digit, making sure Brandon got a perfect view of his hand sliding snugly in the back pocket of her skinny jeans.
She squealed. “We’re at school!”
He grinned fiendishly and squeezed her bottom, then looked over his shoulder. Public Enemy No. 1 stood frozen to his spot, confusion twisting his hard features. His hands opened and closed into fists. His nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed with purpose, and Jeremy was certain he knew what that purpose was.
Not if I beat you to it, he thought smugly, and rounded the corner out of sight.
***
The force catapulted him forward. He tripped on the cracked pavement and nosedived to the ground. His reflexes saved him from crushing his face—the heels of his palms breaking the fall.
His upper back screamed, throbbing heat that rippled along his spine and through his arms.
Another blow. This one to his lower back. He cried out and rolled over on instinct. Brandon hovered above him clutching a metal rod.
“You think you’re funny now, asshole?” he taunted, waving the rod menacingly.
“Fuck you,” Jeremy breathed, searching for a weapon of his own.
“Not me, you,” Brandon said. “You’re the one about to get fucked. You think you’re something special now because you’re dating my ex? Guess what? You can have her. She sucks. Like you. You guys are perfect for each other.”
“Then leave me alone,” Jeremy replied.
“Oh, no no,” Brandon said. “I’m not gonna beat the shit out of you because of Regan. I’m gonna beat the shit out of you because I fucking hate your guts.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a fucking asshole!”
Jeremy snorted. “You’re an idiot.”
Brandon swung the rod like an ax, but Jeremy was too quick. He rolled to his right and jumped to his feet. His spine screeched, sharp pains going off one by one by his tailbone.
“I’ve done nothing to you!” Jeremy yelled, jumping backwards to avoid the rod.
Brandon now used it as a sword, thrusting it forward toward his unarmed opponent. Jeremy danced around it, trying to avoid it piercing his heart.
“Sure you have,” Brandon replied. “You take up space in my school. You add to the loser population, and we don’t need any more of those.” He paused, thinking. “You look at me sometimes. Yeah, that’s right. Who the fuck do you think you are looking at me? Did I ever say you could look at me? You keep your goddamn eyes on the ground, Scarface!”
Jeremy gritted his teeth. The arrogance of this guy. God, he fucking hated him!
“I killed my dad,” Jeremy said low. “What makes you think I won’t kill you?”
Brandon’s head swiveled left then right. “Well, I don’t see a baseball bat anywhere, so I guess you’re shit outta luck.”
“I don’t need a bat,” Jeremy said.
“You’re saying that to a guy holding a big metal rod,” Brandon replied. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“Then drop your weapon and fight me like a man.”
Brandon burst out laughing. His cackles sent Jeremy into a rage. He plowed into his enemy, wrapping him in an angry bear hug and slamming him against the side of a building. Naturally Brandon chose an alley as his point of attack. Such a B-rated douchebag bully move.
“You need to give me a little more respect,” Jeremy growled, spit flying from his lips onto Brandon’s face. “I’m not that punching bag I was last year. Or the year before that. Or the year before that.”
Brandon pushed him off and swung wildly. The rod slipped from his grip and flew through the air, landing several yards away.
“Now what are you gonna do?” Jeremy taunted.
He watched the contortions of Brandon’s face—trapped in seething frustration. A frustrated guy isn’t a smart guy. A frustrated guy makes critical mistakes.
“Fucking kill you!” Brandon bellowed, charging Jeremy with no control.
Jeremy jumped to his left, whipped out his hand, and clasped his rival’s wrist. He used Brandon’s propulsion to swing him around and throw him easily to the ground.
Control versus no control.
He punched Brandon’s left eye. And then his right. He elbowed his nose, listening to the sickening crunch of smashed bones and cartilage. Brandon screamed in agony, throwing his fists around, making inadvertent contact with Jeremy’s ribs.
“Fuck,” Jeremy breathed, backing away, clutching his middle.
Brandon hopped up, wiping continuously at the blood oozing from his nose.
“Another go?” Jeremy asked, bracing himself for impact.
Brandon hesitated, wiping more urgently.
And that’s when Jeremy let down his guard. He made the wrong assumption and paid the price. Brandon bulldozed him to the ground in a flash, straddling him and pummeling him in much the same way his father beat him. How much more could his body take?
He grabbed Brandon’s throat, squeezing as hard as he could. And then he broke guy code because he was justified. And because he was finished being a punching bag.
He jerked up his knee, slamming it into Brandon’s most vulnerable area right between his legs.
“GODDAMNIT FUCK SHIT FUCK!” Brandon cried, rolling over onto his side and clutching himself.
Jeremy lay still beside his moaning, writhing opponent, knowing the threat was over. He breathed deeply and hissed, feeling sharp pains in two sections of his back as well as his right ribs. He turned his face to look at Brandon, watching the tears stream from his swollen eyes. He took an inventory of Brandon’s injuries: two black eyes, broken nose, busted lip, busted knuckles. He paused, eyes dropping to Brandon’s cupped hands. Cracked balls.