Page 27 of Monstrous Serpent

That asshole needs to shut up.

I reach into my back pocket to grab my phone. Someone from my team’s got to be home. Or nearby.

But my pocket’s empty. I try the other. Nothing.

Fuck.

Left my phone in the goddamn cupholder because I was too busy having a heart attack to grab it when I got out.

“Why is this shit happening to me?” Like I don't have enough going on in my life. Even Connor Walsh keeps piling it on.

“Damn, dude. You’ve got some killer cardio. Too bad you’re slow.”

“Go to hell.” I run to the right, passing the Wexley Fine Arts Center, then make a right again, heading back toward Young Hall.

But the larger of the two comes up the side again, so I adjust. Except now I’m heading straight toward the tree line of thick oaks.

“Wow, you really learned nothing last weekend.”

Shit, shit, shit.

He’s too close.

I sprint into the trees, giving it everything I have. If I can just lose them—

“I gotta be honest with you, man. I had high hopes for tonight. But you just keep running. You're kind of a letdown. Like, at some point, you gotta ask yourself, are you always going to be the guy who runs? Because that's getting boring real fast. And boring is . . . forgettable,” the loudmouth one says.

My jaw clenches, feet coming to a dead stop. I turn and swing at the annoying prick.

Ow, fuck.

“Damn, dude. Are you really that stupid that you punched me in the helmet?”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up.”

I drop and shoot forward, wrapping both arms around his legs. He goes down hard. I'm on top of him before he hits the ground, and I swing again. And again. My fist connects with his visor. The side of his helmet. The chest plate of his vest.

He laughs, his whole chest shaking under me, and the sound crawls into my skull. “You're so mad right now.”

I grab the front of his vest with my left hand and hit him with my right. My knuckles are wet and throbbing, still, I keep going because the laughing won't stop.

“Enough,” a deep voice rumbles from behind.

I ignore it and swing again.

Pain explodes through my scalp, and a second later I’m dragged backward.

“I said enough.”

“Fuck you.” I claw at the hand in my hair, but it does nothing because the second asshole is wearing gloves.

His helmet presses up against my ear. “You’re fucking up your hand for no reason.”

I swing my head sideways to headbutt him. But his grip on my hair tightens, and he jerks me back. Something squeaks out of my throat and my spine curves and I can't—that wasn't—I didn't mean to do that.

“Oh.” The loudmouth one on the ground props himself up on his elbows. “He likes that.”

“Maybe.” The asshole grabbing my hair leans over my shoulder, then his helmet tilts down. “Not hard for us this time, eh.”