J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forgive

Begging?

“They were so worried about your reputation. Little did they know you’d fucked half the football team that night.”

My hand splays over my chest, and then moves up to grip my neck. No. I’d have remembered. Right?

“We had our fun with you, taking turns, filling you up.” He looks past me like he’s reliving the memory and enjoying it.

“You’ve heard enough, Mouse,” Blake growls, his voice trembling with rage. “Get Axelle the fuck out of here.”

Axelle shrugs off Killian’s attempt to pull her outside. Her eyes lock on mine. She wants the truth as badly as I do.

“No. Tell me everything,” I say to Stewart, knowing that we may never find out what happened that night if we don’t get it now.

Stewart’s eyes grow icy cold. “Everything? How about how you ruined my life. You and your bastard kid.”

The nausea bubbles up into my throat. As badly as it feels to hear what he’s saying, I need him to continue. My soul demands answers.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I married you because I thought you were Axelle’s dad. If you weren’t, why didn’t you say anything?”

He throws his arms out to the side. “How fucking stupid can you be? What was I supposed to do? Admit that I roofied the hottest chick in school so the boys and me could gang bang her? I’d end up in jail.”

“Enough.” The pop of plaster rings through the room. Blake pulls his fist from the wall, where he knocked a foot wide hole. “I can’t take this shit.” Blake’s jaw is rock hard, his mouth in a tight line, and his fists flexed. His shoulders seem bigger, swollen and held up high, prepared to do damage. “Tell him you’ve heard enough.”

Stewart studies Blake through narrowed eyes. That scheming look back on his face. “Haven’t you been listening, asshole? You don’t want her. She’s garbage. Even back in high school, no one stepped up. Not one of the guys claimed the baby as their kid. No one wanted them.”

Crack!

The sickening sound of broken bone, and Stewart drops. Blood gushes from his nose, running down his chin and onto the carpet.

“I want them. They’re mine.” Blake’s words are bellowed seconds before the room erupts.

The coffee table shatters against the wall. Stewart is up and punches Blake, but it has no affect. He throws Stewart to the ground, straddles his body, and rains punches to his head. Fleshy thuds of fists to bone ring thorough the room.

Strong arms lift and move me from my statued spot. Axelle and Raven are talking to me, but their words are static. White noise compared to the words that pound in my head so hard they rattle my core.

I want them. They’re mine.

Blake

I’m lost in a blur of blood and rage. Fuzzy. Incoherent. Fueled by instinct over thought. My arms swing, one after the other, muscles burning. I’m high on the buzz. Light-headed from the release. Over and over, my hits land hard.

Pulled from behind, I thrust back an elbow to relieve the tension. Contact.

Wet coats my fists. My target isn’t moving. But that doesn’t stop me from delivering blow after punishing blow. I’m pulled back again. Voices filter through the fog. They’re yelling.

More, I need more. My arms crank harder. The object of my beating offers no resistance. I roar, an animal begging for a fight.

The voices yell louder. Stop, Stop!

I can’t. Revenge. Protection. Duty. These are what push me to punish.

A wall hits me from the side. I’m weightless a second before pain explodes in my shoulder. I struggle to get back to my feet. Crawling against the weight that holds me down. I thrash and kick, embracing the violence that hums in my veins.

Voices call my name, shouting. One familiar and feminine. She needs me.

Throwing off the resistance that keeps me grounded, I scramble to my feet. Visions assault my brain. Tear-streaked faces. Eyes round with panic and worry.

I shove through the fog, searching. Where is she? My muscles prepare for another fight. She cried out for me. I heard it, but where is she now? Adrenaline rockets through my veins.

A grip on my arm. I’m pulled back. No. They can’t keep me from her. I whirl on my attacker. My hand wraps around a neck. I push back and up, holding my enemy off the ground by the throat.

The voices yell louder. I squeeze tight, growling, ready to watch death pass through the eyes of the fucker.

Those eyes, wide with fear. And pain.

They roll back. Tears drip from chocolate brown irises.

My hold quivers.

Layla.

Layla

Oh, God. No! Not Blake. He promised he’d never hurt me.

I claw at his forearms. My eyes water, and splintering pain erupts in my throat. Everything around his enraged face fades to black. I try to talk, but my windpipe won’t allow it. Please, Blake. See me.

He blinks fast.

I fight for consciousness.

Jonah’s forearm crushes against his throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Snap out of it. Break through, man, fuck!”

The grip on my neck lets up. He drops his hand, and I crumble to the floor, gasping for air. Jonah wrestles a writhing Blake to the couch. He throws him face down into the cushions and digs his knee into his back.

He turned on me. All I did was touch his arm, and he turned on me. But that wasn’t my Blake. I saw it in his eyes.

Axelle and Raven pull me to my feet, asking me if I’m hurt.

“I’m okay.” I cough and swallow past the burn in my throat. “I’m okay.”

“Mom, what’s wrong with him?” Axelle’s sobbed words are laced with worry.

“I don’t know. He lost it.” That’s the only way I can make sense of what happened. One minute I was hanging on everything Stewart said, and the next… total chaos.

Stewart’s body lies motionless on the floor; his face’s coated in his own blood. Searching deep for empathy—or hell, pity—I find nothing but satisfaction. He had it coming. He practically begged for it with the hideous insight he provided into my past after Blake’s repeated demands for him to stop. Stewart goaded Blake into throwing the first punch. But why? So he could pull out a weapon and claim self-defense? But there’s no weapon.

Blake’s still on the couch, and Jonah’s talking close to his face. I can’t hear him, but whatever he’s saying doesn’t look pleasant.

I grab Axelle around the shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go into the kitchen.”

Killian looks out the window. “Cops are here.”

Axelle, Raven, and I huddle around the kitchen table, and Killian opens the front door.

Officers rush in, low to the ground, guns raised. “Everyone, stay where you are, hands up.” They move through to the living room, and out of my eyeshot.

“Put your guns away. He’s okay.” Jonah’s voice bellows from the living room.

“Lower your weapons.”

I cower, waiting for the gunshot that thankfully never comes.

Raven pulls a chair from my kitchen table and moves it to face me. “Are you sure you’re okay? Does anything hurt?” Her eyes make passes from my shoulders to my chin.

“I’m okay.” I rub my tender neck. “A little freaked out, but I’m not hurt.”

“Mom, are you sure? There’s an ambulance downstairs. They could check you—”

“Shh, no!” I shake my head, realizing what will happen if the cops find out about what Blake did to me. “We can’t tell the cops.”

“Layla—”

“Please, Raven. I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s not right.” I point to the living room. “That wasn’t the Blake I know. I saw his eyes. He wasn’t there.”

She glares at me, her lips pursed.

“You’ve known Blake now for how long? Has he ever shown that kind of violent behavior before? Especially toward women?”

She chews on her lip, and shakes her head. “No. That wasn’t like him at all.”

I nod. “Give me a few days to think. Something’s wrong, I just… he’s been paranoid lately and… I need time to think. We can’t rat him out to the cops until we know exactly what’s going on.”

“I agree with Mom. Blake’ll be in enough trouble for what he did to my da—Stewart.”

“Okay, Layla. It’s your call,” Raven says.

“Quiet, for now. Until I get more information. Then—”

“Mrs. Moorehead?” A young cop with a friendly smile strolls up to me from the living room.

“Layla. Call me Layla.” My voice sounds rough and garbled.

“Layla, I’m Lieutenant Hodgeson. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

He asks for my version of events. I tell him exactly what happened but leave out the detail about Blake coming after me. He writes on his pad of paper, flips a page, and writes more.

“Did he say anything to you? From the first punch to the last, was he coherent and communicative?”

I want them. They’re mine.

A fierce wave of protectiveness surges within me. “No, not really. He’d mumbled something after the first punch, but after that he didn’t speak.”

Lieutenant Hodgeson makes some notes then puts his pad and pen into his shirt pocket. “Your boyfriend’s going to be taken to the station and be put under arrest for felony assault.”

Shit. “But he was protecting us. Stewart’s the one who should be arrested. He barged into my home and made threats. Blake was trying to protect us. Everything he did was to keep us safe.” My voice is getting higher and higher, and worry for Blake’s future spikes my adrenaline.

I can’t let him go down for this. Heat flares at my neck. I try to soothe it with my hand.