Tyler’s the only one who hasn’t spoken up yet, and I don’t hold my breath. He’s not going to stick up for me, and the others are going to notice his silence soon enough. They’ll call him out on it, and I’m not disappointed.
“What do you think, Ty?” Brett presses.
As much as I hate to admit it, it’s kinda impressive how Brett’s exactly matching my speed, driving alongside me. It’s not easy to have a car go that slow.
I hear a deep inhale and assume it’s Tyler.
“If you give her an enema, you could bury her in a matchbox,” Tyler says.
Translation—he thinks I’m full of shit.
But even that isn't original. He tweaked an insult Christopher Hitchens said about Jerry Falwell. A literary barb yet again, and I can't help glancing over at them finally.
A mistake.
Brett parks the car and jumps out. The others do too. I speed up, desperate to get away, but it doesn’t matter. Corey’s there, his hulking form crowding my space as he cuts in front of me and forces me back at an angle until I’m backed up against the Porsche.
“Little mouse is in a hurry to run off,” he says with a smirk.
“Not until we have some fun first,” Brett says.
Corey grips the back of my hair, digging his fingers into my scalp. I wince but don’t cry out, doing my best to not show any sign or hint of fear in my eyes. His expression loses a bit of its edge. His hand loosens just enough that I shake myself free.
“Can you believe this bitch tried to get the hump on me?” Brett asks.
Corey steps to the side to let Brett take the spot in front of me.
“I think someone needs to learn to keep her hands to herself,” he says, placing a hand on my hips, pinning me in place against the car. His other hand finds its way to my throat. I really hate feeling the pressure of his hand there. It doesn’t belong there.
A car slowly drives by, and despite Brett’s hand on my throat, I can shift my neck enough that I can recognize the car as a police officer’s.
We're at a corner. The cop has to stop at the light, right near us. Brett's car is double-parked, but he doesn't care, looking over and watching us.
"Leave—" I start to say, but Brett squeezes my throat, and I can't get out any more words.
He drops his other fists so hard on top of my books that my arms crumble, and the books fall to the ground, mostly on our feet. He’s unfazed, but then he’s already winding up and punching my stomach. I would’ve doubled over, winded, if I could’ve.
I'm almost positive the cop could've seen the punch. He definitely has to see the hand on my throat and since his windows are down, at least heard the books dropping, but the cop does nothing. He ignores the obvious harassment and drives off.
Brett squeezes my throat even harder. I can feel my face turn bright red. The other guys are egging him on, but I can’t hear what exactly they’re saying above a faint buzzing sound in my ears.
“You will not touch me again, do you hear?” Brett whispers ominously in my ear.That, of course, I can hear clearly.
Now that my hands are free, I grip his wrist and yank his hand away from my throat. Yes, I specifically touch him again right after he asks me not to, but he does react or respond, other than to step back and then stomp on one of my textbooks as I start to gather my books. My face grows more and more heated as I rush to snatch up everything else.
If he thinks I’m going to beg for him to release my last book, he better think again.
But he kicks it toward me, and I yank it off the sidewalk, bursting past them, ignoring the insults they hurl at my back. I don’t cry. Tears don’t even fill my eyes. I’m livid, furious, far too angry to even consider crying. Brett, Tyler, Corey, Shane… they might call themselves the Mutineers, but they’re just a bunch of loser assholes. They’ll never amount to anything.
And clearly, they haven’t had their fill yet of harassing me because within thirty seconds, the car is beside me again, but I’m walking even faster than before, almost running, and I’m so close to the stores, so close…
The first one is for suits and tuxedoes, and I pass it by. The next store, thankfully, is for shoes, and I duck inside. There are huge sales for stuff on sale, but I’m not looking at anything other than perching myself in the corner, glancing out the window display.
The bastards are sitting idle out front.
Are you fucking kidding me?Don’t they have anything better to do?
Apparently not. For a solid twenty minutes, until my arms are killing me from carrying my books for so long, I wander around the store. I hate that three different sale associates approach and ask if I need any help, but I tell them I’m just browsing around.
Every time I venture slightly closer to the front during those twenty minutes, I still see the damn car. Just in case they can see me, for the next twenty minutes, I make sure I’m not anywhere close to the front. When I work up the nerve to check the front again, the car is finally gone. I peek my head out the door and glance up and down the street just to see if they perched somewhere else nearby, but they didn’t. They’re gone, hopefully long gone.
And so am I. I rush out of there and head to the library and do my best to forget about those assholes, hoping beyond hope that they’ll forget about me.