Okay

by Danielle Pearl

He wipes the blood and spit from his mouth, and slowly, with an effort that satisfies something deep in my belly, makes his way first to his elbows, and then to his knees, until he's staggering to his feet.

  He spits again, saliva tinged pink with blood, and then he makes the mistake of speaking. "She ain't who you think—"

  I deck him in the jaw, throwing all of my weight into it until I release so much force I nearly topple over myself. The motherfucking bastard flies backward into the brick wall, his head wobbling beautifully, and he slides back down to the ground.

  "Again," I demand, but he doesn't obey. His eyes blink open and try to focus, but I'm losing my grip on my patience. "Again!" I shout. "Get up!"

  "Fuck!" he whines. "You don't… even know her…" He plants one foot on the ground. "The fuckin' bitch—"

  As soon as he shifts his weight to try and get up, I strike again, hammering my fists into the sides of his face in quick succession. This time, I go down with him, pinning him to the cold concrete with my weight, knowing he won't be getting up again.

  He makes a pathetic attempt to fight back, his limbs barely twitching with all of his exertion, and I let out a low, sinister chuckle at his efforts.

  I grab him by his hair and slam his head into the pavement, but only once, though every cell in my arm aches to do it again, and again, until he no longer exists. Until I know with a blessed certainty that he can never threaten Rory ever again.

  But I am not myself. I am not the Cap with anger and impulse control issues. I am in full control, calculating my every move, and I'm painfully aware that I can't kill this motherfucker right now in this alley, not with all of these people around and Rory barely fifty feet away.

  And I need him conscious. I need to get my message across. Because it's the last one I'll deliver him. He'll either heed it or he won't, and if he doesn't, the next time I'll make sure he doesn't walk away breathing, no matter what the consequences.

  "Hey," I say, slapping his cheeks to keep his attention. "Stay with me, tough guy, I'm not done yet."

  I wait for his gaze to clear, and then I hit him again, immensely enjoying the way his head snaps sideways, twisting in an almost impossible angle until I shove it back to face me.

  "Look at me," I growl, slapping him again, needing his focus.

  I know it won't take much more before he's completely knocked out, so I shift my attention lower, landing solid shots to his stomach and sides, relishing his agonized grunts, the feel of my fists pounding into his kidneys. I savor the deep whoosh of air leaving his body as I pound his diaphragm, the gratifying sounds of his desperate wheezing.

  I give him a moment as he gasps for breath, allowing him enough air to stay cognizant of what I'm about to explain. Because how seriously he takes my words can be the difference between life and death. And not Rory's, his.

  I watch him carefully as he blinks into some semblance of focus.

  "Cap…" Tucker warns. He's anxious. I can only imagine the look in my eyes in this moment, and it must be fucking murderous.

  But I ignore my best friend, and am only even vaguely aware of him in my peripheral, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  "Cap—"

  I hold up one hand to stifle him without breaking my gaze from the piece of shit lying bloody on the ground beneath me, and then redirect that hand to his throat. I exert enough pressure to restrict his airway, giving him only the smallest taste of what he put Rory through, and as much as my fingers ache to tighten and end him, I forcibly restrain myself.

  "I should kill you." I keep my voice calm and clear, trying to compensate for the fact that he's obviously fighting to stay conscious. "You know I should kill you. You know it's what you deserve. After everything you did to Rory, you disgusting, pathetic piece of fucking shit." I take a moment to re-gather my control before I start gnashing my teeth at him. "But despite the fact that you fucking deserve it, and that I'm fucking itching to do it…"

  My hand twitches like a fucking addict hurting for a fix. If I just squeeze a little harder, or deliver just a couple more good hits, I can make sure he can never hurt Rory again—I can punish him for ever hurting her at all. I can rid this world of the worst fucking kind of monster.

  But I wont.

  "Instead, I'm going to do what I know she would tell me to do. I'm going to make the choice I know she'd want me to, even though you just beat and tried to fucking violate her, again," I growl.

  And I am. Because Rory taught me in one afternoon what Dr. Schall couldn't quite get through to me for years. I have a choice to do things better. To be better. And though I know the violence I've doled out tonight wasn't solely to get my point across—that it gave me a kind of satisfaction that makes me a complete hypocrite, it's not even close to what I want to do. And that—that self-restraint, the difference between what I've done and what I want to do—is all Rory. Even though she is out of sight, safe under the watch of my friends, I feel her right beside me, whispering in my ear and holding me back.

  "I'm going to let you live, but you are not fucking going to get away with this, that I promise you. And if you ever so much as step in the same state Rory is in, I swear to fucking God, I will do the world a fucking favor, and end you. And I'll enjoy every goddamned second of it, too."

  He sucks in the wisps of air I allow. And I allow him enough to keep him conscious, but not much more. His eyes bulge with fear and desperation, both bloodshot, black and blue, and one swelling shut.

  I lean in closer, practically snarling at him in revulsion and contempt. I thought I knew what hate was, spent so many years sure I hated my father, but my feelings for him are borderline apathetic compared to what I feel for this piece of garbage. My father is an asshole, but this creature… he is the worst fucking kind of evil, and I wish with every part of me that I could vanquish him for good here and now.

  I nod toward Tucker but don't take my eyes off of that motherfucking bastard for a moment. "He's not going to intervene. If that's what you were hoping. Sure, he's scared that I'll take this too far, but he doesn't think I'd actually kill you. Not intentionally.

  "But he doesn't know what you and I know. He doesn't know Rory, not really. He doesn't know just what she's worth risking. But you do. After all, you're here, ignoring a fucking restraining order, risking your freedom to get to her." I pause a moment, glaring at him, allowing him to really understand how dead fucking serious I am, and say my next words slowly and carefully.

  "What do you think I would risk to keep her safe?" I raise my eyebrows. "You think I wouldn't risk my freedom to keep you from her?" I let that sink in a moment, before tightening my grip only half as much as I want to. "If you ever so much as think about coming after her again, I won't hesitate to do what I really want to do right now…What a large part of me feels like I should do—"

  "Cap..." Tucker is more worried now. He probably doesn't even recognize me, in total control of my violence, and I've given him good reason to make him think I'm about to slip.

  Although my words are not for my best friend, I know he's heard every word. A few months ago he might not have understood. Hell, a few months ago, neither would I. But I know Tucker, and I see the way he looks at Carl, and I doubt there's much he wouldn't do for her, whether he knows it yet or not.

  I smirk down at the bastard. "He's getting it now. He understands. Even if he's not ready to admit it to himself. But all you need to understand is that he won't try and stop me." I tighten my grip even more, finally closing his airway and letting him panic for a couple of seconds while he pitifully attempts to try and resist.

  You fucking bastard, this is only a fraction of what you did to Rory.

  Finally I let go, and he gasps frantically, groaning in pain.

  "Cap," Tucker's says again with renewed urgency. But I hear it too—the faint sound of distant sirens, slowly growing louder.

  "Cap!" I hear Dave shout from the alley, and I stand up, leaving a somewhat conscious, bloody heap on the hard ground.
r />   I bend down, lightly smacking at his cheeks again, telling him to wake up, that his ride is here. He'll be lucky if he can walk, but he came at Rory first, and then me—it was self defense, which I whisper to Tucker in detail while we stand guard waiting for the cops to come and arrest Rory's attacker. Once Tucker's got the story down, he takes two well aimed swings at me—one at my jaw, the second to my left cheek. I thank him.

  The piece of shit on the ground is barely aware of himself, let alone what Tuck and I are up to. He groans and whimpers like a fucking bitch.

  He can dish it out, to a fucking innocent girl, but he can't fucking take it.

  I lean over and spit in his face.

  It's only a couple of minutes later that the police are there, helping Rory's attacker stand up, and he staggers to the ambulance, held upright by two officers. Really, he should be on a stretcher, but he reeks of bourbon, and I think they probably think that's what's accounting for his half conscious state. Of course it helps that I hinted as much to the female detective.

  By the time we emerge from the alley and that motherfucking bastard is read his rights and taken away in an ambulance, Rory is already talking to another detective and being examined by forensics and treated for her scratches and bruises. I look on, in no small amount of anguish, as an EMT uses tweezers to remove small bits of debris from the scrape on her left cheek. She barely winces at all, and when she almost does, she bites her lip and swallows her pain right back down.

  She's the toughest girl I've ever known. She's only even being treated in an ambulance because she insisted she did not need a hospital. Adamantly.

  Tuck gives his statement to the male detective first while I half listen to him, mostly watching Rory.

  This whole night was my fault. I am such a fucking idiot. I saw him with his hands all over her. I saw her, standing there, but I convinced myself that she was letting it happen because she wanted it. Because she wanted someone other than me. Because I pushed her about her friend Cam and she was rethinking the something more. That her deer-in-headlights expression was for getting caught by me, not the utter terror I now know it was.

  I don't understand myself. I fucking know Rory, and mad at me or not, I know there was no way she was just going to be in some random guy's arms, let some stranger drag his mouth all over her neck. I physically cringe at the memory. My stomach rolls and my heart is pressed with a painful pressure—a weight—and it's a sensation I've never felt before.

  I'm overcome with a tidal wave of guilt for my role in her suffering tonight, her fear… If there was anything I could do to undo it, to take it back, I would. I need to apologize to her. For being a dick earlier about her friend, for not helping her right away with that motherfucking bastard. For my blame in her getting hurt… violated.

  Fuck, when I think of what could have happened if I hadn't heard her scream my name. If I hadn't found them…

  I try to suck in air, but my lungs won't work. I'm almost sure my heart has stopped beating.

  I stare at Rory in wonder, overcome with that soft whispering of a truth that first struck me last night and has been growing louder all day. One I'm pretty fucking sure quite a few other people have noticed too. It's that truth that slid between our mouths when she kissed me last night, that charged between us when we talked this morning. The one that knocked me on my ass this afternoon. That drove me to check out her past on social media like a fucking obsessed chick would do.

  The one that rocked me with an unfamiliar combination of deep sadness and dread at the thought that I could have fucked things up for good. Fucked up being something more than friends. The one that allowed me to blind myself with jealousy when I should have realized what was fucking happening right in front of my face.

  The one that makes me watch her now, consumed with regret, guilt, and longing, and has me at a loss for what to do next. She's been through enough, and the last thing she needs is for me to add to her emotional stress. But tonight could have been avoided if I hadn't been so damn distracted by my own jealousy. And, I realize, I just can't do this with her. Not like this. I've never felt this way about a girl before, and I can't pretend it's just a casual hookup. I won't pressure her for something she doesn't want, but if she does want me, then I need to know it's just us. That I won't be seeing her in any other guy's arms, even though it seems ridiculous, considering her distrust of men, and people in general.

  And suddenly that truth is no longer a soft whispering. It's a larger than life, all-consuming thing, taking a permanent hold of my heart, digging its roots up around my throat, down through my gut, and every other part of me. It no longer whispers, instead, it's screaming so loudly I wonder if others can hear its desperation to be heard.

  But I need to fucking think. I need to figure out what the right thing to do is. What to say to her, how to say it. I need to clear my head. But I can't fucking leave here, it's a goddamned crime scene.

  I'll need to give my statement and then go walk for a while, and think things through. And though I now know the truth with a certainly that overwhelms me, I don't know if telling Rory I'm fucking in love with her is the best thing to do right now. Especially tonight.

  For now I should just apologize, for all of it, and pray that she can forgive me. I pray that she doesn't shut me out, that she lets me take care of her. I'll tell her that simple, life-changing truth when it's the right time. After we talk about where we stand. Not tonight. Definitely not tonight.

  ****

  I laugh at myself. As it turned out, I couldn't keep my own word. I told her barely an hour later, for all the good it ended up doing me. I never could have guessed that only a few weeks later, we wouldn't even be speaking.

  Balto stands there proudly atop his mount, mocking me. He hasn't changed a stitch, but here I am, utterly different, and hopelessly lost. I wonder if he's seen my parents together. If the stupid statue knew my parents were fucking seeing each other before I did. There's a good chance they would have come here; they liked this spot too.

  I walk west through the park before I look for a spot to have a drink. I need to get Rory out of my head. My goddamned parents too. I accomplished what I'd set out to do today, and now that I know my father is going to help me with Rory, I can breathe a little bit more deeply. But not by much. Because the small amount of stress that was relieved, was replenished and then some by all of the new information I'm having to process right now.

  Everyone else seems to be moving forward in their lives, but I'm just stuck in some past I'm not even sure was ever real. But it's time I move on. And tonight is as good a time as any to start. So I tell myself, tonight, I will start trying to accept things as they are. I'll get drunk, and hook up with some random girl. Remind myself what life was like before Rory ever panicked her way into it.

  Chapter Eleven

  The stupid music in the stupid bar is thumping and bumping, the excitable underage patrons all in an exceptionally celebratory mood. One more week of school and they will all be free for the summer. And then free in earnest as everyone starts at their respective colleges—the beginning of their new, adult lives.

  But none of it feels even remotely freeing to me.

  It's only been two weeks but it feels like a lifetime. He doesn't talk to me. He doesn't even look at me. He isn't unkind, he just no longer seems to care about me either way. I know it's the right thing—that it's the only way we can move on and hopefully find our way back to our friendship… eventually. But that knowledge doesn't make it sting any less.

  I feel the weight of my invisible chains in every aching cell of my body. Whoever said that time heals all wounds must have been on something. Because I know about wounds, and healed or not, some wounds scar. Some wounds kill.

  One miserable day rolls into the next and instead of gradually dulling, the hopelessness just snowballs. Carl and Tina have been attentive, thoughtful friends, but still, I couldn't feel more alone. It's not that I don't appreciate them—I do.

  But thes
e past two weeks have been miserable.

  It is pitiful and it is pathetic. I am that girl. The one who is just utterly lost without the guy she loves. It's shameful, but I can't find it in myself to care.

  But Sam is getting on with his life. He's been completely avoiding me in the process, but this is me not being selfish. This is me protecting someone I love. And as much as it hurts, I can't regret that.

  Robin's lawyer has made a motion to dismiss the charges and the whole trial could be over before it ever begins as a result. My mother has been working closely with the prosecutor down in Miami, but I fear we will all soon discover just how far small town politics can reach.

  I already know what to expect.

  It's not that I think they'll dismiss all of the charges outright. There's too much evidence for that to happen. But this is the beginning of the negotiation. They will be at least partially successful, and it's likely that it will be the lesser charges that will stick. Surprisingly enough, it's the violation of my restraining order that's most damning, so I can only hope that he doesn't weasel his way out of that one. But whatever the outcome, the Forbeses will use it to leverage a plea deal, and they'll come to some kind of agreement. And it won't be anything near what he deserves, or anything the legal resources at his disposal won't resolve with some community service or probation.

  I'm pretty sure Sam, as a witness, and probably Tucker too, would have been contacted and informed. But if either of them have, they haven't shown any signs of it. The truth is, even now, even after he's made it clear where we stand, I'm surprised Sam doesn't care. I get that he's angry with me and that he's moving on and whatever. And as much as the thought of it stings, I still believed that he at least cared about me as a friend.

  And as such, I'd have thought that maybe he'd have some feelings on the matter. And maybe say something. Or do something. But he hasn't. In fact, he wasn't even in school today. According to Tuck, Sam came into the city early to look at the apartment he and his cousin, Thea, will be sharing come August.