Chapter 33

Carter

Things around me are spinning out of fucking control.

Nothing is in focus. It’s like I’m looking at the world through an out-of-focus camera lens.

My left foot kicks at a rock on the ground, and I watch it scatter across the parking lot.

It doesn’t make me feel any fucking better—but what did I expect from kicking a tiny fucking rock?

Maybe if I could lift a boulder and throw it like Hercules high up into the sky and watch it crash back down onto Earth, I might feel a little better.

Okay, maybe not.

There’s so much anger in me right now. I need to do something. For a second, I stop in front of a car and look at it.

Is this random vehicle a worthy opponent? I doubt it.

Metal is too soft for someone as angry as me.

Instead, I stride over to the edge of the building.

Once I reached the outer wall, where there’s a sign with a large red arrow pointing toward the hospital entrance, I stop.

My eyes zero in on the wall.

I take a massive swing.

I don’t aim for the fucking sign. No, I aim for the goddamn motherfucking wall.

And I fucking connect.

Yet I feel nothing.

Millions of fucking dynamite sticks are exploding in me. Just fucking tons, kilotons of explosive, uncontrollable emotion is raging through every fiber of my goddamn being.

My vision is fucking red, and I have nowhere to direct any of this shit.

How could I have been so fucking stupid?

Without thinking, my fist punches right into that fucking wall again. Blood is now trickling down my knuckles, but at the moment, I’m not inclined to give one goddamn fuck about that shit.

My gaze zeros in on the decent-sized crack I’ve made in the wall’s white surface.

It’s just still not e-fucking-nough.

There is no outlet for me. Nothing.

I’ve been the biggest fucking dick on the planet.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The realization that I’ve lost June hits me harder than I can hit the wall.

And I’ve got no one to blame but myself. I’ve been a fucking idiot.

From my meeting with Lawrence in that sleazy bar to the ultrasound appointment, I should have seen it coming.

It was obvious. What’s wrong with me? I’m just like my father…and Lawrence.

Maybe I can just blame this on bad genes?

What a weak fucking way to deal with the whole fucking situation.

June’s gone.

The best thing that’s happened to me in a long time—probably fucking ever—and I let it slip through my fingers, like sand just running through my hand. The only thing is, I won’t be able to pick her up again.

I’ve totally fucked up.

I mean, she’s gone. Packed her bag and handed back the key type of gone—if I’d have given her a key.

Fucking fool.

“Hey, dickhead,” a familiar voice calls. “There’s still plenty of pussy to get, you know. I mean…”

He doesn’t get any further. Like a raging mad bull, I throw myself at the bastard and grab him by the lapels of his shirt.

Then I spin him around and slam him into the wall.

Unfortunately, he’s prepared.

Instead of his head hitting the wall, he brings his chin to his chest and pushes against me. At the same time, his right leg hooks around my left and unbalances me.

I fall.

Clearly, I’m not at my best. Any other day, I would’ve been on top of Lawrence already. But now, I’m approaching the ground at rapid fucking speed.

Smack!

I slam onto the pavement.

The fall knocks the wind right out of me. For a few seconds, I can’t even breathe. It feels as if a metal vice has gripped my lungs and is squeezing every last bit of air out of me.

Naturally, Lawrence uses this moment to his advantage.

Before I know what’s happening, his right fist connects with my face. Luckily, I wise up to his next move when I see the flesh of his fist from the corner of my right eye.

Unable to counter the attack, I pursue the only option I can see. I turn my head quickly at the last minute.

Instead of connecting with most of my face, his next punch only makes contact with the side of my head before his fist slams hard into the ground.

Now he’s unbalanced, and I’ve got my breath back.

I bring my knees up under me and roll.

“What the fuck do you want, Lawrence?” I yell, scrambling back to my feet.

Lawrence lunges for my legs, misses, and lands splat on his face.

This gives me enough time to take a deep breath and prepare for the next onslaught. It comes all too quick.

While I’m busy breathing and trying to gather myself, I spot my brother inching toward me on his hands and knees, but I notice too fucking late, and he’s already close enough to jab his fist right into my gut.

Again, I’m winded, and my body folds in half like a Swiss Army knife.

“I want what you’ve got,” he pants, his arms lunging wildly for me.

As I avoid one of his punches, another one connects with my mouth. It splits my lip open, and I can taste blood.

“What the fuck?” I say, spitting it out.

“You always get everything. You got Chantal when I’d been trying to get into her pants months before you even met her.”

His rage is still fucking building.

“Fuck, man,” I put my hands up in defense.

Lawrence just punches wildly at me. Occasionally, one of them connects, usually with my face—a couple times with my eyes, right and left.

“And then you end up with this gorgeous chick, the one who’s just fucking perfect, the one dad loves.” On this last word, I turn my face a little too far to the right to look at him, and wham, his fist collides forcefully with my cheek.

There’s a crack. I think he might have broken my cheekbone.

“And, you know what’s worse, you prick?” Lawrence has halted punching me. “You’re being a total prick. Instead of chasing after her, admitting your mistake, and begging her to take you back, you’re acting like you’re all of five years old.

“Man, look at yourself. You’re beating the crap out of me, and why? Because you’re so fucking busy trying not to be me. News flash, asshole: you’re exactly like me.”

All I can do is stare at him. I’m not even feeling any pain in my fucking face—it’s all in his words.

“I take it back. You’re nothing like me. If you were, you wouldn’t be here beating the shit out of me, you’d be chasing after June, doing absolutely fucking everything to get her back.”

Fuck it, I don’t care what else Lawrence has to say. I run, breaking into a sprint to my car. How fucking stupid, am I? And why was it Lawrence who had to tell me?

Fuck.

Of course I should have been chasing after her. It pains me to admit this, but my brother is one hundred percent right.

When I get to my car, I fumble with my keys. Finally, I unlock the door and jump in, getting ready to fucking floor it.

I’m easing out of the goddamn parking spot impatiently when the passenger door opens and Lawrence jumps in.

“Who said you could come?” I growl, stepping on the accelerator.

“I did,” he replies, and I can see his smug grin when I glance sideways at him. “I mean, how else are you going to have any fucking chance of getting this girl back?”

Fucking arrogant prick.

I chuckle.

“Remember in eighth grade?”

I shake my head.

Is he kidding? Eighth grade is a lifetime ago.

“You already had the girls eating out the palm of your hand, and I was left to pick up the crumbs.”

Silence.

For some reason, I wasn’t sure what to say to this.

“And you know what was worse?”

Again, I shake my head.

“You had no fucking idea how easy it was for you to pick up a girl and how hard it was for me.”

“If I didn’t know you better—” I start, but he interrupts me.

“Don’t go down Fifth Avenue man, you’ll be there all fucking day getting to the airport. If you want to catch this girl, you better take the fast route.”

I’m torn. Should I trust Lawrence, or is he trying to lead me astray? Is this some weird plot on his part to throw me off?

“Come on, man, you’ve got to go east down 57th and then straight onto the bridge.” He takes a breath. “I thought this wasn’t about us, but about getting June back.”

He’s hit the fucking nail on the head.

And so, without giving it another thought, I make a fast, manic, rubber-burning left turn onto 57th.

Some impatient dick blows his horn at me, and I show him the finger.

I’m on a fucking mission.