Page 21 of Monk
“Got something you want to say?” I ask.
They cut a glance at each other and shift on the tailgate nervously. “N-no, man. We don’t have anything to say,” the blond youth says.
“No? Sure sounded like you had something you wanted to get off your fuckin’ chests a minute ago,” I sneer, leaning closer to them.
The dark-haired one jumps off the tailgate and steps over to me. He clenches his jaw, staring me in the eye, doing his best to look hard. My hands ball into fists at my sides and I clench my jaw.
“You got a problem?” I warned.
“Yeah, maybe I just don’t like guys who act tough but are giant pussies underneath it all.”
A feral expression forms on my face. “You really want to do this?”
“Do you?”
“Derrick,” the blond kid whispers. “Dude. Leave it alone.”
“You should take your boy’s advice,” I tell him.
The dark-haired kid—Derrick—flashes the blond his perfect set of teeth. “Don’t worry, dude. I got this.”
“You think so, huh?” I say with a mocking tone.
“Yeah, or maybe I just don’t like havin’ fuckin’ trash like you in my town.”
I shoot him a menacing look. “That’s cute. Hear your mommy and daddy say that at Sunday dinner, did you?”
“Man, shut the fuck up.”
“Derrick, dude—”
“I said I got this,” he snaps at his friend.
I’m doing my best to keep this from getting out of hand, but this punk isn’t making it easy. All I want is to put him in his place. Teach him to watch his mouth unless he can back his shit up. He poses like a tough guy, but underneath it all, I can see his uncertainty. He knows he’s committed himself to this path and probably doesn’t feel like he can back down now for fear of looking like the chump he is in front of his boy.
None of that does anything to quell the anger coursing through my veins at the moment. I don’t like people talking trash to begin with. But I hate it even more when it’s punks like these dudes think they’re better than me. Dudes who look down their nose at me just because I wasn’t born into the right family. Don’t live in a big house or have a lot of money. Don’t have two parents who give me every advantage like these douchebags, who’ve been handed everything in their lives on a silver fucking platter.
I’ve dealt with assclowns like them my whole life, and I can’t possibly be more sick of them. They never fail to piss me off.
“You should watch your mouth,” I tell him. “If you’re gonna talk trash about somebody who can—and will—kick your ass, you should probably wait until they’re out of earshot.”
He gives me a sour look and bows up, trying to make himself look bigger than he is. He glowers at me as if he thinks he can intimidate me or something.
“You don’t want to do this,” I tell him.
“You should get out of here, dude. This is a good town with good people. There’s no place for garbage like you in Blue Rock Bay,” he hisses.
“You’re on real thin ice here,” I tell him.
“Fuck you, trash.”
If I clench my fists any tighter, I think my knuckles might split open, and my jaw is clenched so tight, I can probably shatter stone. I hear my heartbeat thundering in my ears, and my face is so hot, I feel like it might burst into flames. I’m doing my best to hold it in, to keep myself in check, just like my anger management counselor has taught me to do.
But I feel my control starting to slip. It feels like I’m hanging onto a ledge by my fingertips—but the ledge is wet, and my arms are getting heavy. A red haze starts to creep in at the edges of my vision and my pulse is racing.
“Get out of my face,” I tell Derrick, my voice hoarse and low.
“Yeah, you know what? I don’t think you’re nearly as tough as you think you are. That’s why you haven’t thrown hands yet,” the dark-haired man says. “I think you’re all talk and this is all just this biker outlaw image. All style and no sub—”
