Page 182 of Lucky Mother Pucker

“Please just go inside,” I say, my voice softer this time. I don’t want her to think I’m mad at her. I’m not.

She turns around and disappears down the alley. When I hear the back door of the restaurant squeak open, then close, I turn back to Jeff.

He groans, cradling his face in his hand. The left side of his face is scraped up and bloody.

“What the…”

I grab him by his neck and haul him up, cutting him off. Then I slam him against the brick wall.

He shouts out in pain, then mutters a curse.

He glares at me. “You’re such a fucking⁠—”

I punch him in the gut, and he yelps. He starts to hunch over, but I hold him up by the throat. And then I squeeze. Hard.

I lean in closer, watching as the panic flashes in his eyes.

“You put your hands on my sister.” My voice is barely above a whisper, but the rage is clear as fucking day.

He makes a choking noise, but I squeeze harder. He tries to hit and shove me, but I don’t budge. Jeff is older than me, but I’m bigger than he is. I’ve got a few inches in height and about twenty more pounds of muscle. He could try to hit me harder if he wanted. It’s not gonna fucking faze me.

“You’re pathetic, you know that?” I grit out, squeezing harder.

His eyes are bloodshot as they bulge out of his head. That wheezing noise he’s making gets more strangled and desperate.

I let go of his neck, and he crumples to the ground. He’s on his knees, hunched over, clutching his neck, gasping for air.

“You asshole,” he chokes out. “I’m gonna call the cops. I’m gonna tell them you tried to kill me.”

I crouch down and get in his face. That terrified look flashes in his eyes as he leans back, hitting the wall behind him.

“Call the cops, you low-life woman-beating piece of shit. I’m a college hockey star. You’re a fucking nobody. Who do you think they’re gonna believe?”

I grab him by the hair to hold him still.

“If you ever come near my sister again, I’ll kill you.”

I punch him in the face. There’s a cracking noise, and his head flies back. Blood spews everywhere.

He covers his face with his hands, groaning and crying.

I stand up and turn around. And that’s when I see a small crowd gathered around me on the nearby street, standing a dozen feet away. Almost everyone has their phones out, pointed at me.

Fuck.

A few people in the crowd talk in hushed tones. I hear someone say, “I think that’s Rocco Peretti’s son. The one who plays for Hollis U.”

Panic zooms through me. I glance down and see the blood on my suit. I see the blood on my hands, my bruised knuckles.

Those people just recorded me beating the shit out of my sister’s boyfriend. I look like a psycho. Like a monster.

I have to get out of here.

I think about heading back into the restaurant, where my family is. But I don’t. I don’t want them to see me like this. Spiraling. Enraged. Covered in blood.

So I walk away. I push through the crowd of people and head down the street.

Snow starts to fall. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I need to get out of here.