“I…I’m sorry,” he stumbles over the words, and I don’t even bother to read his face to see if he means them.
“I don’t care,” I admit. I suck in one last deep breath that lodges with the lump, before I head for the door. All three men watch me go. I turn back just before I slam the door, stare the old fucker in his bloodshot eyes and smile. “Fuck you, Mr Trainor.”
Chapter Eight
Idon’t make it to the end of the corridor before I’m grabbed. I yank my hand away. “I don’t need lecturing or coddling…” Or whatever else Dax thinks I require, but it’s Ben who reaches for me again.
“Trust me, Jules. You need this,” he says cryptically and holds onto my hand, pulling me down the corridor in the other direction, deeper into Aiden’s territory out here under the garage. I errantly wonder how Ben always seems to read my mind and then realise I must have said something out loud again.
“Where are we going?”
“To let out what you’re trying to bottle up.”
My phone is in my pocket, and though I don’t really know him, I trust Ben not to push me into the back of a car and deliver me to Franz, so I follow.
The corridors are like venous threads down here under the ground, and although they labelled the mansionthe compound, Istrongly suspect this unseen portion of the manse is why it really earned the title.
Ben swings open a pair of double doors that look much like many of the others we’ve passed and points to a huge, cushioned mat in the middle of what seems to be a gym. The acrid tang of bleach hits my nose, and my stomach clenches before I can even understand why. I force myself to relax and breathe in again to find that the bleach is quickly overpowered by the scent of lemon.
Ben detours to a wall of lockers and shelved racks and reaches for a box labelled ‘small.’ From there he extracts a pair of modestly padded mitts and throws them in my direction.
“I’m not sure I’ll get used to the dark hair, Honeybee. It’s like I’m talking to a stranger. Here, put these on.”
Next, he grabs two large punching pads that trainers use with their boxers and slides his hands through the straps. He comes to stand a foot in front of me, widening his stance so that his feet rest a shoulder’s width apart. Bouncing experimentally on his toes a couple of times, he lifts his head in a weirdbro-nod and commands, “Hit me.”
I laugh. The sound is bitter and laced with embarrassment and confusion.
“What?” I ask. “Why?”
“Just hit me.” He claps the pads together and bounces again. “Aim for dead centre and just swing.”
“I’m not going to hit —”
“Fucking do it, Jules. Hit me. Or are you all mouth?” he sneers. His complete reversal in attitude has me faltering back a step, but that small stumble only seems to spur him on. “Fucking coward! You’re up there shouting your mouth like some brave bitch, but down here you act all demure? Like butter wouldn’t melt? Which is the lie, Jules?”
“Fuck you,” I spit, but I’m reeling from the ferocity of the words and the icy blue of his eyes as they try to freeze me in theircontempt.
“No, fuck you, Jules. I mean, that’s what they’ll do at Hanson’s, right? They’ll line up to fuck you, pretty girl. Franz’s plaything. That loser, Gresh, will be front and centre. Perhaps your stepfather will too, huh?”
I shake my head. My heart pounds erratically in my chest. “Why are you saying this?” I thought we’d moved through the distrust. Okay, so we weren’t friends exactly, but Ben had proven himself to be on my side…hadn’t he? Did I make a mistake by trusting him?
“You’re already theirs anyway, right? Whore. Addict. Dead girl walking.” He throws the words at me like weapons, each landing a perfect blow. They are truths after all. He isn’t saying anything I didn’t already believe. Still, hearing him say them aloud, words I barely whispered to myself in the darkest moments, only serves to piss me off as much as they hurt me.
“FUCK YOU, BEN!”
“And that little sister of yours…”
Something snaps the instant he mentions Casey. Something already broken and sharp. A thing I’ve been trying to hold together since seeing Franz in my home…in my room with Casey’s things.
“SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!” I scream, launching myself across the sprung rubber mat. I swing indiscriminately, shouting at him with every punch I throw and not at those stupid gloves, but at places that will hurt. Places that will bring him down.
He’s fast. With every hit he blocks, my anger grows. My rage is like a hurricane of fire. Everything burns, my blood boils, my skin sears, I see nothing but red.
“No one will touch her!”
The gloves are too soft; the honeycomb rubber grips aren’t letting me grab. I tear the gloves off and dive for his clothes to get a hold of him. The wiry little shit keeps dodging, but I grip his waist, his shirt coming untucked, and pull at him as I swing my knee intothe back of his and knock him down to the ground.
“None of you fuckers will even look at her.”
