by Lindsey Iler
I hop off the couch and pace. My breaths are heavy, and the blood in my veins roars in my ears. Tingling emerges in my limbs, and I shake them away, to no avail.
“Shit,” I whisper-yell. “Get it under control, Delaney.”
“You’re having an anxiety attack,” Palmer says. “Breaker. In here. Now.”
My vision begins to blur, and the prickling is so intense, it’s impossible to ignore. I kick my feet, trying to remind myself I’m still standing. Breaker moves into my line of sight, but his face is distorted. His warm hands clasp mine, holding them between our bodies.
“Listen to me, Delaney. You’re okay,” he states. His words are matter-of-fact, stern, and yet, comforting. “Take a deep breath with me.” I do as he says, watching his chest rise and fall with the same rhythm as mine. “Okay, can you see me?” My eyes close and open slowly, a little bit of the blur fading every time they do. “There you go, baby. You’re okay. Say it with me.”
“I’m okay,” I whisper.
“All right.” His arms wrap around me as I break down and cry. His body crumbles with the dead weight of me in his arms. We sit in the middle of the living room, him rocking me while I work through the demons I keep pretending aren’t there.
“I think I’m good to stand up,” I say into his chest sometime later.
Breaker helps me to my feet. “I remind you of that night, and I hate that, but I don’t regret what happened. I saw something in you in that room that I don’t think you knew you were capable of.”
“Murder?” I wipe the tears off my face.
“Perseverance.” He lightly holds my chin in place. “We’ve each seen the darkness in the world, Delaney. Don’t allow yours to blow out your light.”
Breaker may see a light inside of me, but what he doesn’t notice is I’m a shell of who I was. No amount of reminding me will change that reality.
One of them is the light, and the other’s the darkness.
How do I know which is which?
Chapter Seven
Breaker
“I gave him notice,” I tell Marek as we walk to the car.
“When is it?” He opens the driver’s door, awaiting my answer before getting inside. I don’t know why he’s in such a hurry to get to school. Mondays suck.
“Tomorrow night,” I say, completely bored with the idea of what’s to come.
Dixon throws his bag in the seat and groans as he slides in beside it.
“Long weekend?” I ask, assuming so since no one has seen him much.
“Don’t ask. Just some bullshit with Reagan,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his head against the glass.
Apparently, I’m not the only one living in hell.
Marek reverses down the driveway, barely looking out the windows for guidance. “You ready for this? Because if you aren’t, we can come up with something else.”
I’ve had the whole weekend to think about my first move. Tripp is going for psychological warfare with these challenges. My option is to play the physical card. It’s the advantage I have over him. I wasn’t nicknamed Breaker for going easy on my opponents.
“He’s strong, but he’s no fighter. I’ll handle this one.”
“What’s the point in the gauntlet?” Dixon asks. “Didn’t she stay the night this weekend? I thought you two assholes were trying to prove who’s the better man for her, which, by the way, is archaic as fuck. If she’s staying the night with you, didn’t she already make her choice?”
In a perfect world it would be that easy.
“She rambled on about some shit about having us both and keeps saying things about the light and dark in the world.”
“Let me guess, Tripp DuPont is the light?” Dixon cackles. “She does realize he’s . . .”
“No, she has no idea,” I cut him off. When I think about her alone in a room with him, I become murderous.
“Why don’t you tell her? Save the girl the trouble of finding out the hard way and let her run into your arms like the little prince charming you are.”
“Because I don’t want to be the second choice. I want to be the first one. I want her to wake up and realize she can’t fathom a life without me.”
“You sound like a fucking pussy.” Dixon kicks my seat. “No offense.”
“Not all of us are capable of flipping off our emotions, Dixon, so fuck off.”
“Break, don’t listen to him,” Marek says through his struggling smile.
“Fuck you, too, Marek.” I kick my feet up on the dash. “You’re one to talk. You worship the ground Palmer walks on. Stop acting like none of us are capable of putting someone above our own needs and wants.”
“Speaking of Palmer, where is our little ray of sunshine?” Dixon leans up, wrapping his arms around the headrest. I shove him off.
“She met up with Delaney early this morning to grab coffee.” That explains his eagerness to get to campus.
“Uh oh,” Dixon singsongs. “You know what that means? They’re totally talking shit about the two of you.” He points between Marek and me while grabbing his bag.
Marek parks the car, then flips Dixon off.
“Speaking of romance, Dixon, let’s talk about Reagan,” I say.
“What about her?” He rolls his eyes.
“Nothing at all.” Marek shrugs, laughing hysterically as we head for first block.
“Have you heard anything, though?” Dixon sprints to keep up with us.
“Let’s face it, boys. We aren’t the guys who humped and dumped last semester,” I point out. “No more pussy roulette for us.”
“And you know who we have to blame for that?” Marek lifts his hand, and we follow to the tip of his finger.
“Palmer,” Dixon and I say in unison as we watch her approaching us. Delaney is at her side.
“What did I do?” Palmer wraps Marek in a hug.
“You ruined us is what you did,” Dixon barks. “Thanks a lot. Because of you, we’re all sensitive and acknowledging our feelings. Personally, I don’t like it.” He storms off towards his first class.
“What did we miss?” Delaney asks, stopping next to me.
“Dixon is upset because Reagan doesn’t want anything to do with him!” Marek yells. A few students laugh. Dixon’s response is to hold his middle finger high in the air as he walks away.
Unsure of what to do or where Delaney and I stand, I keep my arms straight at my sides. Everything in me wants to reach out and grab her hand, to kiss her before we head off to our classes, but I don’t.
“Why are you so uptight this morning?” Delaney leans in and whispers in my ear.
“I’m not.” I walk away from her.
She runs after me. “Seriously, Breaker, what’s going on?”
“Listen, when you showed up at the house Friday night, I thought there would be this shift. I thought it was you picking me. I’m not too blind to see that you’re struggling with whatever demons you have burrowing inside your mind, but I’m also not sure how I fit into your process.”
“But you were more than happy to find a way into my panties. I see how it is.”
“It’s no big fucking surprise that I want you, Delaney. Shit, all you have to do is glance in my direction, and I’m hard, so don’t use that as an excuse.” I point in her face, finding myself more upset than I’d thought I would be. “I’d bury myself in that pussy any fucking day of the week, but I want to know that when I’m in there, when I’m tasting you, that it’s me you’re thinking about. That you’re fucking present.”
“What are you saying?” Delaney asks.
What am I saying? The bullshit with Marek and Dixon this morning has gotten in my head, twisting between what I thought I understood and what’s actually happening.
“I’m saying that I won’t be your fuck buddy. You don’t get to be emotionally available to that douchebag and then come to me when you want your box eaten the right way.”
“Breaker!” Delaney shouts, her eyes cutting to t
he audience my voice has drawn. “Is that really necessary?”
“It actually is.” I shove past her and head in the direction of my first class, needing to put distance between us.
I open the door and see Byron behind the desk. He stands as I approach, tugging me in for a brotherly hug.
“Let me guess, what’s bothering you just walked in the door.” Byron’s eyes flash behind me. I don’t need to look to know it’s her.
“Where have you been?” I ask, skirting his question.
Byron disappeared after the first of the year. We celebrated New Year’s Eve together, but the following morning, his room was packed up. He didn’t answer our calls and sent few texts to let his brother know he was okay. No one held it against him. Everyone was dealing with the aftermath.
“The interim dean asked me to take some time off. The university agreed it was for the best, but I’m back now,” Byron explains, picking up a stack of papers and handing them to me. “Do me a favor and pass these out.”
“Does Dix know?” I ask, taking the stack.
“He’s not happy with me, but he knows.” Byron shrugs. “Rumor has it you got yourself into a little gauntlet situation? Tell me about it later, at home. I may be able to help.”
“Good to have you back.” I nod and turn to the class.
Everyone is already in their seats, Delaney right in the front. She peers at me through her eyelashes, a somber smile on her face. I make my way through the rows, handing each student a sheet while Byron begins his lecture.
“Take a seat, Breaker.” He gestures to the seat next to Delaney.
Asshole. What is he trying to do, play matchmaker?
I choose a spot down the row, leaving two seats between us. She rolls her eyes and groans out loud, not bothering to hide her disappointment. Byron chatters about different literature in our history, reminding me why I shouldn’t have chosen this as my English class for this semester.
“What is the main theme amongst most, but not all literature we see being called the classics?” Byron asks, skimming his eyes over the classroom. They land on me, and he grins. This fucker is going to call on me. “Breaker, what do you think it is?”
“Love,” I say without hesitation.
“And why do you think that is?” His grin grows wider.
“Because human beings are fucking idiots, as a whole,” I blurt out.
“That may be, but I think there’s more to it than that.” He pins Delaney with his stare. “What about you, Delaney? What do you think?”
“Love fuels emotions, Byron.” The class snickers at her use of his first name. “I’m sorry, Mr. Decatur.”
“You’re fine, but let’s elaborate on that idea.” He walks backwards and sits on the edge of his desk. “What other emotions are fueled by love, and what are some examples of that in real life and fiction?”
“Well, for starters, hate is fueled mostly by love,” Delaney says. I hiss in a breath, feeling hatred right now. “Most people once loved those they hate, or at least had a deep admiration for them.”
“Can you give an example?” Byron asks.
“I can, but I’d rather not.” Her head drops, hiding her eyes from anyone willing to look into them long enough.
“Okay, that’s fair, but let’s say that love fuels hate, and vice versa. How do you combat one without destroying the other?”
“You don’t,” I interrupt. “Sometimes they have to learn to co-exist.”
Byron lunges from the desk, excitement written in his expressions as he comes to address the class. “Precisely my point. Our emotions are allowed to co-exist. We see it in every piece of literature. Love and hate. Sadness and glee. Anger and remorse. These emotions are meant to move the story along. They are tools to tell the story. You may not even know it, but every day those emotions are writing your own story.”
He beams with pleasure, happy with himself. For the first time, Byron sounds like a real teacher. Whatever happened to him while he was away, it was good.
“Okay, assignment time.” Byron nods as if he’s having a conversation with himself in his head. “Take out your writing notebooks and describe how your emotions control your experiences. Could be a memory or something current, but the only thing that matters is you’re writing and trying to understand the emotions. This will help you as you read literature, although I’m sure some of you will never open another book once you graduate.” The class laughs at his joke and does as he says.
I grab my black notebook and flick my pen against the blank sheet of paper, thinking about the assignment. Emotions aren’t easy for guys like me, yet somehow, they fuel my actions.
Movement catches my eye. I glance up and see a junior girl with long blonde hair approaching Byron. She leans down, whispering in a hushed voice. When she stands and walks away, exaggerating the sway of her hips, his eyes stay plastered on her ass. Thinking he’s not being watched, he bites the corner of his mouth, clearly happy with the view from his desk. He must sense my eyes on him because they dart up and catch me, catching him. He wiggles his brows, silently laughing.
Byron Decatur is proof not everyone is capable of fully changing. Events have molded him into who he is. The same goes for me.
So, what makes me think I can change?
The answer is simple.
I can’t.
I sure as fuck won’t.
Not even for the vixen beside me who hasn’t stopped staring at the side of my face since we got this assignment.
I scribble one single sentence on my notebook and hold it up for her to read.
I HATE YOU.
Indifference greets me in her eyes. She grabs her pencil and writes something on her notebook.
THAT’S OKAY BECAUSE I HATE YOU, TOO.
******
We park beside an old, rundown building. The doors slide open, exposing the dark interior. The lights overhead dangle with the natural sway of the roof. A brisk wind could take this place down.
“This is quite the set-up!” I yell over the loud crowd. Marek escorts me to the center of the room, shoving through the throng of spectators.
“Unlike Hollow Hill, we knew we couldn’t get away with this on campus. Since we’re officially under surveillance, we went with the next best thing,” Dixon says, throwing a white towel over his shoulder.
“Who owns this place?” I ask.
“Honestly, we have no idea, but we’re guessing they won’t mind if we use it, considering it’s been abandoned for as long as I’ve lived here.” Marek thrusts me into a corner hidden away in the dark. “Now, listen, there’s no out from this. Final blow wins. There are no rules. Your moral compass goes out the window right now. Go out there and destroy him.”
I stretch my arms, feeling the ping of pain in my shoulder from our game this week. I took a good hit to my right, my strong side, and that’s going to work against me.
“Make him wish he never called this gauntlet. Make him believe a body bag is the only option for you,” Dixon adds to the pep talk.
I glance up and see Byron, lost in the shadows above everyone. As an academy staff member, he can’t be seen here, but there’s no way he’d miss this fight. He has his own history with the DuPont family, and he’d love nothing more than to watch me bury the youngest one. His chin drops in greeting, and I drag my eyes to the mob that is growing by the minute.
“They’re betting?” I question, seeing money exchanged from hand to hand. “Who do they have winning?”
“Not your problem. Go.” Marek shoves me forward, following close behind me.
The crowd parts, anticipation circulating through the air like fireflies, lighting up the place. A circle forms, and on the opposite side, Tripp stands with Richards and Washington, each of them in street clothes as opposed to their usual pressed shirts and slacks.
“There’s one rule.” I grin, knowing Tripp has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. Pent-up anger comes out in weird ways with me. “Don’t tap out. If you do, the gauntle
t is finished, proving what most of us know already.”
“Is that it?” Tripp scoffs. “You clearly have no idea who I am. I don’t tap out, asshole.”
“We’ll see.”
Marek walks into the middle of the makeshift ring. “Okay, listen up, fuckers. You will stay back. Anyone who dares to come beyond this line”—he points to the red, spray-painted circle on the cement floor—“officially becomes a member of the fight, and trust me, these two have enough anger towards each other to bury your ass on the spot. Oh, and there are no rounds. There are no time limits. There are no officials.” He approaches a group of girls wearing polished sweaters and moves them behind the line. “You may want to move to the rear unless you want blood on your Ralph Lauren.” They listen to him, disappearing into the mob. “Let’s do this.”
Music starts to play through the speakers. Everyone cheers, excited for this fight to start.
“Kill him,” Marek instructs, shoving me into the center.
Tripp and I stare at each other. This bare-knuckle brawl is nothing new to me. Freshman year, Byron convinced us to start a fight club, of sorts. It was short lived because I destroyed everyone, and no one dared enter the ring against me.
I wiggle my fingers, inviting Tripp closer. He bounces on the balls of his feet, proving he’s not a complete idiot when fighting. My guess is he has several years of mixed martial arts and boxing experience, paid in full by his stuck-up parents who saw sports as a way to help their precious son through sudden bouts of anger.
Tripp charges forward and makes a direct punch to my jaw. As planned, I plant my feet and take it. The best thing to do is give my opponent a false sense of security by allowing them the first hit.
“Is that all you have, pretty boy?” I grin, rubbing my fist over the tender spot.
“Just getting started.” He lunges again, thinking he’ll land the same punch twice.
I move to the side and plant my knee in his stomach. As he barrels over, I crush his ribs, knocking him to the ground.
“It would be too easy to take you out now, but these people came for a fight, so let’s fight.” I raise my hands up and down at the crowd, inciting excitement for this blood bath.