“What’s going on in your head, Jer?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do I make you pay attention to me?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
She sighed and stood up abruptly—directly in front of him—pulling her shirt over her head. She tossed it to the side and waited. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Essentially, he was a heavy marble statue teetering teetering teetering . . . oh, there it went, crashing onto her confidence and smashing it to bits. She wrapped her waist protectively, hunching over, trying to hide within herself.
“No,” he said softly. “Don’t do that.”
She dropped her arms.
He stared shamelessly at her bra, knowing it was the flimsiest material barring his eyes from her naked breasts. And he wanted to look at them. And touch them. And kiss them. Suddenly, he felt fine! His back miraculously healed! Broken ribs? Nope! Superficial bruise at best. Adrenaline was a powerful drug. It dulled all the pain at exactly the right time.
“Regan,” he whispered.
She took hold of his hand and guided it to her right breast.
“Oh my God,” he breathed.
He didn’t move. He didn’t squeeze. He just sat there with his palm pressed against her amazing tit. He couldn’t get the words out of his head: amazing tit. He almost said them aloud. He knew he mouthed them.
“What did you say?” she asked, grinning.
“Uh, I don’t know,” he mumbled, staring at his hand suctioned to her body.
“I hate my boobs,” she said after a moment.
“I don’t.”
She giggled.
“I have to wrap them real tight for soccer,” she said. “They get in the way.”
He didn’t really understand. It was hard to concentrate on her words when all he wanted to do was pull down her bra cup to expose her nipple. Holy shit, her nipple.
“Uh huh,” he said.
She laughed. “You don’t understand at all, do you?”
He shook his head and willed himself to pay attention.
“What do you mean you wrap them?”
“In compression bandages,” she replied. “To flatten them. And to keep them from moving around.”
“Don’t sports bras do that?”
“To a certain extent,” she replied.
His arm hurt. He really didn’t want to let go, but he was going numb. He dropped his hand.
“It’s hard to chest bump a soccer ball with big tits,” she explained.
He thought a moment. “Wouldn’t big tits just make the ball go farther?”
She burst out laughing.
“That actually makes sense,” she said. “But they work more as cushions than springboards.” She paused and looked down. “At this advanced stage, anyway.”
He wanted to bury his face in her cushions.
“I just . . . I’m self-conscious about them, but I see you eyeing my chest all the time, so I figured you’d wanna have a peek.”
He smirked. “That obvious?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry you don’t like them, Regan,” Jeremy said. “I’m sorry they’re a nuisance for you out on the field. But from my perspective, and from any other horny guy’s perspective, they’re the most amazing things on the planet.”
“Really?” she asked softly.
“Really.”
Her hands disappeared behind her back. They reemerged by her sides at the exact moment her bra hit the floor.
“Oh my God,” Jeremy whispered.
She climbed on top of him, straddling his lap, smiling smugly with that knowledge of feminine power.
“Come here, Jeremy,” she said, lacing her fingers in his hair and pulling him gently to rest his face between her breasts. “Let me coddle you.”
She used her bare breasts as a tactic to distract him from his anger. She used them to dull his physical pain, to erase any thoughts of revenge on his most hated enemy. And it worked for a time. But eventually she had to go home, and he was left with only the darkness of his bedroom and thoughts of Brandon—the guy who deserved to be wiped from the planet.
“I know you’re there,” he said aloud.
Silence.
“And I know you’re mad at me.”
Nothing.
“Humor me,” Jeremy said, inviting him to come out and play. “Bring your gun.”
Fuck you, the vigilante spat.
Jeremy said nothing. He waited patiently for the interrogation.
He bullied you for years. He bullied Hannah for years. Did you forget that while you were playing with Regan? He hit her, for Christ’s sake! Yet you’re done? You’re done with me and our mission? You’ve put down your guns? Is that it?
Jeremy closed his eyes. “I don’t wanna fight anymore.”
But he wasn’t sure he believed it. The image of Brandon slapping his girlfriend’s face made his heart rage—fill with vengeful fire until it burned painfully behind his breast. He knew the only way to snuff out the flames, but he couldn’t be wholly sure his heart was still in it.
Pick up your guns, Jeremy. Remember what you’re fighting for. It’s not just about you. You’re fighting for all of them—all of those people who get shit on every day for no good reason. That used to piss you off. It should still piss you off. Find the anger. It’s still in you. You know it’s justified. You know it’s right.
He fisted the sheets on either side of him, gripping them tightly in sweat-soaked hands.
Be the hero. Be the one who saves them. Be the one who ends the cycle of abuse.
A single tear slid from his eye.
Don’t cry about it, you *! Find your anger! Find your resolve! Pick up your guns and fight!
He shook his head.
Pick up your guns and fight!
He touched his scar. The memory of Brandon taunting him in sixth grade flashed before his eyes: “You’re a freak! A FREAK!” he said, laughing with his cronies.
Pick up your guns and fight, Jer. It’ll never end if you don’t.
Eighth grade: Brandon’s first real punch. His fist jabbed Jeremy’s gut. Knocked the wind out of him. He thought he would die, wheezing frantically for air.
“That’s right, Scarface! Move to the back of the line.”
Pick up your guns and fight.