Shock, and then understanding, changed the planes of Colton’s face, and his smile mutated, becoming something less than cocky, less than smug. He bared his teeth, showing his true nature. Even his words were clearer now. “Then who’s it about, Evan? You?” He slicked his hand over his greasy hair, shoving it out of his eyes as he stood upright. “I’m not one of your mindless followers like that moron Boxer or that cunt Kisha. What’re’ya gonna do, dope me up like Bailey? Make it so I don’t have a thought’a my own anymore?” There was a flash of fear behind his mud-colored eyes, almost as if he’d realized he’d gone too far, but it was gone almost as fast as it had appeared. Replaced by defiance. “You can’t tell me what to do, Evan. You’re not my father.”
And that was it, everything he’d been holding inside, everything he’d held back was unleashed. Those four simple words: You’re not my father.
Because he was. And Colton needed to understand that. Needed to realize he had to respect him as such.
His first blow was enough to drop Colton to his knees, and blood began immediately gushing from his nose. Evan’s knuckles ached, but it wasn’t satisfying, so he hit Colton again. And again. And again.
He felt removed, almost euphoric, as he released his anger, as he let it go on the boy beneath him. He pounded until his fists hurt, and then he pounded some more. He was only mildly aware of a whimpering sound, coming from somewhere far away, and of the words I am your father being repeated loudly—hoarsely—over and over again.
When he was out of breath, and his shoulders and back and arms ached so badly he couldn’t possibly lift them even one more time, he slumped forward, collapsing onto Colton. Only then did he realize that the whimpering was coming from his son—from Colton. But it wasn’t whimpering, it was wheezing.
He raised his head then, and surveyed the scene. He dropped the bloody rock he’d been holding, clutching, in his fist.
“You made me do this,” he said. “Why couldn’t you just behave?”
He waited for a response, for Colton to say, or do, something. But there was nothing. Just stillness . . . and wheezing. And blood.
He thought about the first time he’d seen Colton at the park, bruises under both of his eyes and a chip on his shoulder. He was just thirteen. Yet even then, Colton had looked up to him, had needed the older boy to watch his back out on the streets.
And he had. And when Colton had run out of places to stay, he and Bailey and Kisha and Boxer took him in.
He didn’t like that Colton had pushed him to this, that he’d given him no other options, but it was what it was. Sometimes parents had to make the tough decisions. Sometimes they had to do things for the greater good.
He leaned down, peeling away the hair that had fallen back over Colton’s eyes, hair that was now wet and sticky and red. He smoothed it away and caressed the boy’s forehead, and then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss there. He wanted Colton to know that, even though he’d had to be punished, they were still family . . . no matter what.
This happened in families sometimes. They fought and they made up.
And this was one of those times.
CHAPTER 15
“AW, GEEZ, WHAT’S HE DOIN’ HERE?” SAM ASKED petulantly as he eyed Rafe with apprehension.
“Take it easy,” Rafe told Sam, trying to sound as friendly as Violet had ever heard him. It was completely false, like Mr. LeCompte’s accent, but she appreciated the effort nonetheless. It was her one caveat when she finally confessed what she and Sam had been up to . . . that Rafe try to at least set Sam at ease. She didn’t want him scaring the younger boy with his surly attitude. Sam had, after all, been doing her a favor.
“Don’t worry,” Rafe said, putting up his hands. “I promise not to get in the way. I’m just here to make sure no one gets hurt.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “So you don’t think I can protect her?”
Rafe laughed, but it wasn’t bitter and mocking, like his usual laugh. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” And then he chucked Sam in the arm, playfully.
Sam might not have wanted to, but he couldn’t help smiling back at the older boy. Rafe could be sorta charming when he wasn’t being a total jerk, Violet realized.
“Whatever, man,” Sam said, rubbing his arm. Then he tossed his head toward the entrance. “There’s been a steady stream of people going in already. Whoever this band is, they seem pretty popular.” He looked at Rafe. “And from what I can tell, you’ll fit right in.”
Violet took in Rafe, in his worn jeans and threadbare T-shirt, his leather jacket and black boots.
Then Sam’s gaze fell on her. “We’re gonna stick out like sore thumbs.”
As she glanced toward the entrance, Violet realized what he meant. There were other girls there, but none were dressed like her, and suddenly she felt out of place in her jeans and fleece jacket and sneakers. Sam was just as bad, wearing a button-down with a collar and khakis. Already they were drawing unwanted attention.
Rafe looked at the two of them and rolled his eyes. “Here,” he said, stripping off his jacket and handing it to Sam. “At least try not to look so . . . collegiate. And you,” he said to Violet, shaking his head. “Throw your North Face in the car and lose the ponytail. Try to look like you’re here for a good time.”
Inside the club it was just as bad . . . if not worse. They were so obviously out of place it was almost laughable. At least her and Sam.