Page 60 of The Golden Boys
That usual sassiness is there, but it’s buried now, beneath a ton of emotional baggage. Her walls have never been low enough for me to notice before, but I see her now. Enough to know she’s a girl who carries a lot and doesn’t have much to show for it.
Perfect prey for a man like my father.
A spark of sympathy tries to ignite within me, but I don’t allow it. There’s no excuse for getting involved with a married man. Not even having a piss-poor life you’d do anything to escape.
“Again,” I command coldly, remembering exactly who she is and why I can never forget it.
She rolls her eyes and groans, but does what I told her to. The twenty seconds pass quickly and, like I said, she didn’tdie.
“Better,” I admit. “Now, let’s try getting you to float. Then, maybe we’ll have time to try some kicking and arm movements.”
Her gaze shifts down to the water then, but she doesn’t immediately protest, which isn’t like her.
I’m already feeling frustrated with her lack of cooperation. “What now, Southside?”
Her eyes flash toward my chest when I cross my arms over it.
“Nothing,” she forces out. “I just … I did something to my shoulder, and I can’t really move it all that well.”
Half-surprised she even mentioned it, my eyes are drawn there. Although the bruise isn’t visible from this angle, I haven’t forgotten. Nor have I stopped wondering how it got there.
My gaze flickers to hers when I have a flashback to Friday night, when I spotted her in the parking lot with that dickhead with the motorcycle. He was all over her at the block party, so I can only guess there’s something going on between them.
“Your friend do that to you?”
Confusion flashes in her gaze. “What friend?”
My brow quirks. “The one who seems to make it a point to be whereveryouare.”
Damn … I sound bitter as hell. Check that shit.
When it takes her a few seconds to answer, I’m starting to think she read more into my tone than I meant for her to.
“You mean Ricky?”
“Fuck ifIknow his name,” I snap. “The asshole who grabbed your wrist when you were crying after the game.”
She seems shocked that I remember the details so clearly, but I ignore what that probably implies. Instead, I maintain my cold expression, waiting for her to answer.
Her eyes close and stay that way a few seconds. “No, Ricky would never lay a finger on me.”
What about his dick? Does he lay that on you sometimes?
I catch myself before letting those very words leave my mouth, choosing instead to stick to the script.
“If not him, then who?” I ask. “Because you and I both know you didn’t do this yourself. So, before you feed me some bullshit about slamming it on a cabinet or falling down the stairs, know I’m not buying it.”
There’s a standoff between us. One in which I find her incredibly hard to read.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks, pushing strands of her drenched hair behind her ears. “We both know you don’t care what happens to me one way or another. So, why is it so important that I answer you?”
My chest moves steadily with the deep breaths I draw in. This conversation has left me feeling exposed, like I’ve let her see the man behind the mask. This realization is the perfect opportunity to correct my own wrong, but I forego it to ask another question.
“Your dad. Was it him?”
There’s a measure of surprise that briefly fills her expression and I didn’t miss it. It’s enough to leave me thinking I just hit the nail on the head. And to drive that point home, she didn’t jump to his defense like she did this Ricky guy.
“He do shit like this often?”