Weston held out his hand and helped me down from the tailgate. Then, he pushed it up, and it latched with a click. “We’re going to head out, boys. Have a good night.” He pulled his keys from his pocket.

Brady took a step forward. “You’ve practically spit on Alder’s grave, the way you’ve been hanging all over this skank since they died.”

Weston protectively angled his body in front of me. “Why does it upset you so much, Brady? You know how I felt about Alder, how I didn’t feel about her.”

“I knew,” Brady said, his words slurred, his glossy eyes tightening. “Because I was your best fucking friend. And I don’t even know you anymore, man.”

“So, what? You want to hit me? Did you bring these guys to help beat the shit out of me? What is that going to solve?” Weston asked.

Tyson shook his head. “I’m not hittin’ Weston, man. This ain’t my fight.”

Brady sneered at him. “Pussy.”

“Fuck you,” Tyson said. “Wes is my friend. I’m not helping you jump him because you—”

“Shut the hell up!” Brady yelled.

Weston narrowed his eyes at Brady. “You were in love with Alder. That’s why you’re so angry.”

Brady chucked his can of beer at Weston, and he covered me with his body. It narrowly missed his shoulder and hit the ground, darkening the dirt on the bridge in a fizzy small black pool.

“You don’t know shit,” Brady said, taking a step. “You never deserved her. Now, she’s dead. And you’re banging this skank whore!” he yelled the last word, pointing at me with four fingers.

“C’mon,” Weston said, gently grabbing my arm. “Let’s go before this gets ugly.”

“Too late,” Brady said with a guffaw. “You brought ugly with you.”

Weston flipped around, but I grabbed his T-shirt. He leaned forward, stretching the white fabric.

“You wanna go?” Brady asked, holding out his hands. “Let’s go.”

“You’re still pretty banged up from the last time I got a hold of you. You sure about this?” Weston asked.

“Weston, please. Let’s just leave,” I said. My hands were trembling.

Even if Tyson weren’t going to help, it would still be four against one.

“Shut up, Skittle tits. I have had it up to here with you,” Brady said, holding his fingers up to his forehead. “You move into Alder’s room and play house with her parents. It’s fucking gross how they’ve just forgotten about their daughter and let you take her place like she never existed. You’ll never be Alder. No matter how much high-dollar soap you use or how many brand-name jeans Julianne buys, you’ll still be the secondhand, socially backward spawn of a crack whore, pretending to be one of us.”

Weston’s hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Please, Weston,” I begged. “Please take me home.”

Weston shook his head as he took a step despite the fact that I was pulling back on his shirt.

“I don’t know how, but I’m going to prove this was a mistake,” Brady said. “Alder’s parents are going to be ashamed, and that gutter slag will go back to where she belongs.”

Weston laughed once without humor. “A mistake? Is that what you’re hoping for? Look at her, Brady. She looks like Julianne!”

“Yes, it’s a fucking mistake!” Brady said, spitting his words. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Weston gently removed my hand from his shirt. “If you want to know about mistakes, Brady, you should ask your parents.”

Before Brady could process the insult, Weston lunged, and they were on the ground. Brendan and Andrew jumped in, too.

“No! Guys!” Tyson yelled, holding out his hand to Micah, forbidding him to join in. “Knock it off!” he said, trying to pull Andrew off the top of the pile.

Brendan scrambled away, lifted his boot, and kicked Weston off of Brady. Weston writhed on the ground for a moment and then tried to pull himself up to his knees.

Brady pulled back his elbow and let his fist fly, knocking Weston square in the jaw. Weston caught himself, his palms flat on the cement.

“Stop!” I screamed.

Brady turned to me, glowering. Keeping his eyes on mine, he kicked Weston in the head, knocking him facedown.

Brendan did the same, landing the toe of his boot into Weston’s ribs, and then Andrew did, too. Each time Weston tried to push himself up, they would kick him again.

“That’s enough!” Tyson yelled, the veins popping out of his neck.

I pushed past them, throwing myself on top of Weston’s body. He was so much bigger than me that I barely covered him. I kept my eyes closed, bracing myself for the next blow.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Tyson yelled again.

I looked up, and he was pointing at Brady, who was poised to attack.

“Get in the truck!” Tyson demanded.

The drunken glaze in their eyes was gone as was the excitement of ganging up on their victim. I held tight to Weston, hearing him holding his breath and then groaning.

He looked up at Brady. “This ain’t over, Beck.”

“You’re damn right it’s not,” he said, following the others as they climbed back into the pickup.

“You all right?” Tyson asked, standing over us.

“I’ll live,” Weston said.

Tyson nodded once and then joined the others just before the pickup flipped around, spraying us with gravel. Weston tried to shield me, but he moved slowly.

As the red glow from the brake lights of Brady’s truck faded in the distance, Weston sat up onto his knees and spit. A bit of blood remained on his lips, and he wiped it away with his wrist.

I pulled up the bottom hem of my tank top and wiped the dirt and blood from his face.

“This has got to stop,” I said, my voice breaking.

“Oh, it will,” Weston said, his voice low and menacing.

“No. No more fighting,” I pleaded.

“What if you end up alone with him in Stillwater? You think I’m going to let you go there, knowing he’s out for blood?”

“Do we have to talk about this now?”

“Then, when? He’s always been a dick. This is a whole new level. I never thought he’d have the balls,” Weston said before spitting again.




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