Page 113 of Strange Lad

Bile surges up my throat when I spot him sitting with a guy who looks like he’smaybeeighteen—definitely not of drinking age, that’s for damn sure. Morgan keeps pawing at the kid, grabbing his hips and whispering in his ear. The longer I look, the more warning bells sound off in my skull. There’s a glossiness to the kid’s eyes that I can spot even this far away. His shoulders keep slumping, head lolling into the wall of the booth.

Morgan picks up a cocktail and offers it to the kid. My hackles rise, goosebumps coating every inch of my skin.

The memories bang on their invisible walls, demanding to be seen and acknowledged. It takes everything in me not to get sucked back to that party—the first night—when Morgan did the same thing to me. He’d loaded my drink with something, got handsy, and eventually led me upstairs. But he hadn’t put enough of whatever drug in my drink. I was awake. I felt itall.

This kid looks like he might pass out…and soon.

Fuck.

My legs move, and the urge to defend and protect this kid has my heart racing, thrashing, and marring war paint. I can be afraid, hide in the shadows, or stop this. Iwillstop this.

I shove through bodies, not caring whose drinks I spill or what couple I interrupt. When I make it to the booth in the bar's back corner, Morgan doesn’t even realize I’m standing there, breathing like a bull. He’s too preoccupied with his prey for the night.

I swing my arm out in a swiping motion, sending the drinks toppling into their laps. Morgan hisses, jerks to attention, and my stomach plummets to the floor when his eyes land on me.

“You,” he growls.

The kid glances down at his wet crotch like he doesn’t know where he is. “Get away from him.”

People look, so Morgan collects himself quickly. “Why don’t you sit down? Join us?”

“Jake, what’s going on?” the kid slurs.

“Jake, is it? Using fake names now?” I am so angry. So fucking enraged that I can hardly contain it.

“Sit. Down.”

Despite my rage and knowing that he’s been doing this for the past decade, despite all my progress and bravery, that tone strikes my chest. Deep-seated fear takes root, and I drop into the empty side of the booth. Morgan smirks, grabbing some napkins and wiping his crotch. He never takes his eyes off me as he tucks the kid into his side.

“You won’t say a word,” Morgan says easily, as if this is a common occurrence. “Still my good boy, huh?”

The urge to throw up is strong. The knots in my stomach keep twisting, stones forming over them. Cold sweat drips over my brow as my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

“We are going to leave. And you’re going to stay right where you are.”

I nod immediately, just like I used to. “I’m sorry,” I rush out, afraid he’ll hurt me. Afraid he’ll make me go with them.

I’m fucking fifteen again, wishing the earth would reach up and swallow me. He leans forward a fraction, his hand sneaking under the table, and when it touches my knee, I flinch so violently that my head cracks into the wall behind me. I see spots, and I try to run, but he digs his fingers into my kneecap. I can’t breathe or hear over the sound of my own pulse.

“I’m sorry,” I cry, trying to jerk my knee away, but it won’tmove.

“Pinche violador,” A familiar voice pierces through, and a loudcrack.

My eyes dart up to find Jorge hiking his fist back, and it flies forward. Another loud crack echoes through the bar, and blood gushes out of Morgan’s nose. “I’ll fucking kill you!” Jorge roars, leaping into the booth and wrapping his hands around Morgan’s throat.

The kid screams.

Chaos erupts.

My legs thaw immediately at the sight of Jorge in Morgan’s vicinity. I scramble to my feet, lace my arm around Jorge’s torso and pull. He’s stronger than he looks and refuses to let go, all the while screaming endless profanity in Spanish.Violadoris said over and over. I reach around, tugging on his wrists. As much as I want Morgan to hurt, I won’t risk Jorge.

“Let him go,” I beg.

He gets in another punch before I successfully remove him. I hold him back as he snarls, curls going everywhere. “Hijo de tu puta madre!”

I’ve never seen Jorge so violent before.

Security rushes us, and fight or flight kicks in when someone grabs my shoulder. I spin viciously, throwing a wild elbow out, and it connects with someone’s face. Everything goes blood redas hands touch and pull, poking and prodding while I scream, attacking anything that comes close to Jorge.

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