Page 8 of Wicked Spite
No one was there to protect me when I needed it the most, and I refuse to let history repeat itself. The thought of some slimy old man climbing on top of Reese sends a shudder down my spine, and I can’t—won’t—let that happen.
I push myself up on the bed, wincing as my bruised body protests. My eyes flick to the door, half expecting my father to burst through it. But the room remains silent.
I need to get it together, I realize as I force myself to stand. I’ve been through worse, and I’m not going to let him break me now.
As I take a few tentative steps around the room, my thoughts swirl with possibilities. My suspicions were right about his plans for Reese. I need a plan—one that ensures my sister’s safety without putting either of us in further danger.
“Watch out, old man,” I murmur, my voice heavy with spite. “You’ve messed with the wrong bitch this time.”
Chapter 3
Penn
“Hit harder, you fucks! Pussies can take better poundings than you,” I bark, taking another tackle with a grin that would make the devil blush. My body slams into another player, sending us both sprawling to the ground. The taste of dirt and sweat mingles in my mouth. I shove myself up, adrenaline pumping. The guy I just mowed down groans and rolls to his side. Weakling. I yank him up by the shoulder pads. “That all you got?”
“What the fuck, Blackwood! You can’t do that shit!” One of the linemen spits out, glaring at me.
“Come on, big guy, you scared?” I taunt O’Bannon as he grumbles and kicks at the turf as he walks away.
The air smells of dying leaves and fresh-cut grass, mingled with the metallic tang of blood from someone’s busted lip. My heart pounds in my ears, louder than the thud of bodies colliding on the field. This is my own little twisted playground at school when I can’t get away. When I can’t feel someone’s life in myhands.
“Wildcard! Enough!” Coach’s voice slices through the chaos. He’s been calling me that since freshman year. He says I’m too goddamn unpredictable on his field and that I either am going to ruin his life or win him the game. Practice comes to a screeching halt, and I saunter over, pulling off my helmet.
“Aw, come on, Coach. Us girls are just having fun,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow as I flash him a cocky grin.
“Cut the bullshit, Penn.” He grabs my arm and pulls me aside, close enough for me to smell the stale coffee on his breath. “Your behavior’s extra fucking erratic today. You don’t usually come out on to my field and buck my fucking rules so much. What if this was a fucking game? You would have been kicked the hell out. You need time off. Go deal with whatever your old man’s putting you through.”
“Time off?” I snort. “What, so Daddy Dearest can get his claws in deeper? My time is better spent here.” I wave a hand at the field, where the rest of the team is either nursing bruises or staring at us like we’re a car wreck they can’t look away from.
“I’m not a fucking idiot,” Coach growls. “I know your father. I’ve known Robert Blackwood longer than you’ve been alive. He’s a piece of work, but you—” He pauses, looking like he’s choosing his words carefully. “You don’t have to turn out like him.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I like being a piece of work.” I pull my arm free, feeling the weight of his words settle somewhere deep in my gut. I brush it off with a laugh. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep these guys in fighting condition.”
“Penn,” he sighs, rubbing his temples, “you’re gonna get yourself killed. Just be careful.”
“Relax, Coach,” I say, clapping him on the back harderthan necessary. “I’m just blowing off steam. I’ll dial it back. Maybe.”
“Figure your shit out, Penn. Before it’s too late.” His eyes bore into mine, searching for something I’m not ready to give.
“Sure thing, Coach,” I say with a wink, turning on my heel. But as I walk away, the smile fades. It’s not that easy. Nothing ever is, and no one is going to take football from me. I love this game and the number of things I love can be counted on one fucking hand.
“Alright, you bunch of fucking degenerates, hit the showers!” Coach yells, dispersing the team. I hear the muttering, feel the stares, but I keep walking, head held high.
I’m stripping off my gear in the locker room and I can feel some of the other players’ wary gazes on me. Everyone fucking loves me until they don’t. Until my anger, my torment, my blade or bat or lighter is turned on them. Fuck ‘em. They’ll never understand what it’s like to be me, to be a Blackwood, constantly battling the darkness in me and trying to keep it held back by fishing line and duct tape.
“Penn, what the fuck was that out there?” Lincoln’s voice cuts through the haze. Yap, yap, yap is all I hear. I’m not answering someone who’s questioning me that’s fucking his sister. Stepsister, but still. Tomato,tahmahto.
“Just a bit of fun, Linc. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“Fun? You’re gonna get yourself killed one day. Your recklessness has escalated,” Jeremiah snaps.
“Better than dying of boredom,” I retort, grabbing a towel. “You two should try it sometime.”
“What’s your deal, man?” Lincoln steps closer, his eyes searching mine. “You’ve been acting like a psycho.”
“Newsflash, Linc—I’ve always been a psycho.” I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “Maybe if you pulledyour head outta Iris’ snatch sometimes you’d see that the world keeps fucking moving and we don’t bow down at your feet.”
“Cut the crap, Penn.” Jeremiah’s fists clench, the veins popping on his forearms. “This isn’t just about football. It’s about Dad, isn’t it?”
