Chapter Seven

 

Bree

 

Cafe Piccolo is bristling with guests – and with good reason. They have one of the finest brunch offerings in Folson Forge, which means that there is often a wait. I step into the quaint little cafe and search the crowd for my friend before spotting her at a table in the far corner of the restaurant.

She waves to me and I weave my way through the crowd of diners, trying to blend in as much as possible. A tall blonde woman looks up at me, her eyes wide, and then turns and whispers to her partner, a man in a business suit. They both turn and look at me as I push my way past them, my cheeks on fire. I'm sure they're a shade of red not found in nature, so I keep my head down and avoid making eye contact with either of them.

“Is that –” the man says as I pass.

“I believe that's Bree Longstreet,” the woman replies, just loud enough I can hear her.

Others apparently overhear her as well, and a host of heads turn my way. Suddenly, all eyes are on me and I start to feel like the damn Elephant Man or something. I hear people whispering as I pass their tables, but I try to ignore the gossip going on all around me. Try to ignore the heat of my blushing cheeks. And the sudden urge to turn and flee as the scrutiny I'm under becomes unbearable.

Elizabeth stands and pulls me into a tight hug, whispering in my ear, “Ignore them, Bree,” she says softly. “They're just jealous that you look so amazing.”

She steps back and guides me to our seats, casting dark glares at the people who are staring at us. I turn away from the crowd, immediately burying my face in the menu even though I know exactly what I intend to order – the same thing I always get.

Until recently, whenever I ventured out of captivity, I would get a few stares and hear my name mentioned in whispered conversations. It was bad for a while. As the years have passed by, however, the interest in me gradually faded. This allowed me to show my face in public a little more often. Which is a good thing. I am so tired of being gossip fodder.

Seeing and hearing the renewed interest in me today, however, is a bit disconcerting. I don't know where this new fascination with me is coming from, but I don't like it. I just want to live my life. I don't want to be someone’s goddamn entertainment.

“Maybe this wasn't such a good idea,” I say, biting my lip. “I had no idea I'd draw this much attention. Aren't I old news already?”

Elizabeth chuckles. “Well, it's because of you-know-who being back in town,” she replies. “You know how people here love their rumors and gossip.”

My face burns even more than before. “Who's back in town?” I ask, a slight tremor in my voice.

“You didn't hear?” Elizabeth's face falls.

“Hear what?” I ask, my voice starting to rise, panic seeping in.

“I thought everyone knew that he-who-must-not-be-named is back in town for his brother's funeral,” she says.

I know exactly who she is talking about, and a current of white-hot fear shoots through me. My pulse begins to race, and I can feel the adrenaline coursing through me. I feel like I'm in fight-or-flight mode.

“Shit,” I say, burying my face in my hands. “No, I had no idea. I don’t really pay attention to anything that family does, honestly.”

“Which is probably for the best,” she says.

“But, what does him being back have to do with me?” I ask, that feeling of fear growing larger by the second. “Why is it making people talk about me again?”

Elizabeth looks hesitant, biting her bottom lip and fidgeting with the silverware on the table. I look at her, waiting for her to say something – anything – but she isn't saying a word.

“Elizabeth,” I say. “What? What is it?”

“Well – a lot of people believe it was him in that video with you, Bree,” she says. “Him being back has brought that all back to the surface again.”

“Oh, God,” I moan and feel the tears welling in my eyes. “I need to go. I need to barricade myself at home until he's gone again.”

Elizabeth reaches across the table and takes my hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She forces me to lift my face up and look her in the eye. She smiles gently at me.

“It's okay. I'm sure he's only here for a few days,” she says. “And fuck these people. Don't let them bother you.”

“Easy for you to say.”

A wry smile touches her lips. “I know,” she says softly. “And I'm sorry. Just – try. They're beneath you, babe. Try to not let them get under your skin.”

“I can't run into him,” I say. “I should probably just go home –”

“No, you shouldn't. It'll only make people talk more,” she says. “Stay. I'll keep an eye on the door, and if – and that's a big if – he comes in, I'll kick his ass for you.”

I can't help but laugh. “Yeah, because that will stop people from talking,” I tease.

“Seriously though, if he steps foot in here, we're gone. Just say the word, and we can leave through the back,” she says. “I know the guy who runs the place, it'll be fine.”

I let out a sigh. I know she's right, but a feeling of dread is wrapping its cold, dark tendrils around me. I can't hide forever though.

I lower my voice. “Whatever happens, he can’t find out, Elizabeth,” I say. “No one can know. Ever. Especially not his family.”

Years of experience have taught me how to talk without saying names – especially while I'm out in public. Anyone can overhear you, and in this day and age of social media, bloggers, the press – or ordinary people with a Twitter account dying to go viral, are literally everywhere. I can't risk a single word getting out about Owen or the fact that Milo Sheridan is the father of my son. No one, outside of my family and present company, know about Owen's existence, which is how it needs to stay until I find a way out.

“I know, babe,” Elizabeth says, squeezing my hand. “We'll keep him safe, don't you worry. They won't get their grubby little hands on that sweet angel. And anybody who tries is going to be sorry.”

A wave of gratitude rolls through me and I feel my eyes well with tears. I take Elizabeth's hand and squeeze it. I swear, sometimes it feels like Elizabeth is the only one on my side. Well, her and Matilda.

“Thanks, Elizabeth,” I say weakly. “Thankfully, we don't have to worry about it for long. Matilda has been researching schools out west for me. She's helping me get the financial aid and everything else figured out.”

“Oh, speaking of which,” Elizabeth reaches into her purse and pulls out a slip of paper. “I spoke to a family friend out in California the other day. She's looking for a live-in nanny and has a guest house big enough for the two of you. She's dying to talk to you.”

“Oh my, God,” I say softly. “Thank you so much, Elizabeth.”

“Anything for you, babe,” she says. “I hate thinking about you leaving, but I get it.”

She hands me the slip of paper with a name and contact information, which I quickly tuck away in my purse. I sip my tea as the waitress takes our order, and then Elizabeth and I engage in a little small talk as people are being seated beside us – close enough to hear our conversation.

“So how are things with Charlie?” I tease.

She doesn't answer at first as I swirl the straw around in my tea. I smile at her, and my grin grows wider when her cheeks flush with color.

“Oh,” I say. “So, I'm guessing things are going really well, huh?”

“He's nice, what can I say?” Elizabeth says with a shrug. “He's not like the other guys I've dated. He actually wants to take things slow and is really respectful.”

“The two of you haven't slept together yet?”

I pretend to be in complete shock, with a hand over my heart, and an exaggerated look of surprise on my face. Elizabeth throws her straw wrapper at me but laughs.

“No, we haven't. I mean, we've come close, but –” her eyes are distant for a second, and she smiles brightly. “He tells me that we don't need to have sex yet because he knows we'll have plenty of time for that.”

“Sounds like things are getting serious,” I say.

I'm pleased for my friend, but at the same time, my insides burn with a jealousy that I push down deep. I wish I could find somebody who would be as good to me as Charlie is to Elizabeth. I'm honestly glad she's found somebody who treats her so well and with so much respect. It makes me happy that she's happy.

But, at the same time, I can't help feeling a little sorry for myself. I'd like a piece of happiness like that too. And I don't know that I'll ever have it.

“I swear, the more time I spend with him, the more I think he's the one –” she continues.

The dark, empty loneliness I feel in my heart and soul must be showing on my face, because she stops speaking, and her smile wavers a bit.

“Gosh, I'm sorry, Bree,” she says. “Listen to me going on and on about my love life, when you –”

“Hush,” I say, reaching across the table to pat her hand. “I asked because I want to see you happy. You deserve to be happy. Don't even worry about me. I'll be free soon enough. And who knows, maybe I'll meet someone special one day.”

“I hope so,” she says softly. “As much as I'll miss you, I can't wait for you to be able to live your life – on your own terms.”

“Yeah, and far away from here. Far away from anyone who knows my name. A place where I can maybe find somebody to date,” I say. “It's not like my prospects in this town are all that great.”

“That's not true,” she says.

I shrug. I'm pretty sure I know what the men of Folson Forge think of me – which is probably the same as everybody else in this shitty little town. That I'm a slut. A whore. A cheap, easy girl. My reputation is ruined and there is nothing I can do to get it back. I haven't been on a date since Owen was born. I'm in my mid-twenties, the prime of my life, but living the life of a spinster, tucked away and hidden in my family's estate like I'm a diseased and broken thing.

And, given the way my family treats me – like a blight on the Longstreet name – maybe I am. Which is why leaving this place and going somewhere new, where nobody knows me, starting fresh, and living life on my own terms, makes so much sense. For all of us.

The people sitting next to us – the blonde and the man who were talking earlier – are very quiet. Too quiet. I glance over and see them trying hard not to stare, but it's obvious they're listening in on our conversation. A seething feeling of rage builds inside of me, but there's nothing I can do. This is the life I'm forced to live – the life of a woman with a tarnished reputation in a small Southern town. An object of scorn, curiosity – and ridicule.

I notice that the blonde woman is doing something on her phone, and panic sets in. Is she recording this conversation? And if so, for what purpose? To sell to the local media? To put up on her own blog? What?

I sit up straight and motion to them, Elizabeth takes notice, and an expression of worry crosses my face.

“Hey, you two,” she says.

They pretend to not hear her.

“Blondie and dipshit,” Elizabeth says, a little louder. “Are we entertaining enough for you?”

“Elizabeth,” I mutter, eyes wide, reaching for her as she stands up. “Sit down.”

She grabs for the woman's cell phone, and the blonde doesn't have time to react. Elizabeth snatches it out of her hands, and stares down at it. Her eyes grow wide and she quickly hands it back to the woman.

The man with her stands up, and scowls at us both. “Who do you think you are –”

“I'm so sorry, miss,” Elizabeth mutters, sitting down at last.

I look from Elizabeth to the couple and back again. My best friend is hiding her face with her hand and when she speaks, her voice is little more than a whisper.

“She wasn't recording us,” she mutters.

“I kind of gathered that,” I whispered back.

The man is still standing over us, his arms crossed in front of him. The woman grabs his arm and tries to pull him back.

“It's alright, Archie,” she says. “After what she's been through, I can't blame them for being extra cautious. It's okay, hon.”

Cautious is one way to put it. Paranoid is probably more like it, though. But, I give the woman a thankful smile. Archie eventually sits down but continues to shoot daggers at Elizabeth.

“Again, we're really sorry,” I say. “I'd be happy to pay for your meal, as an apology.”

“No need, dear,” the blonde says, patting my shoulder. “I'm just glad you're out and about once again. People were getting worried about our fiery little starlet. It's terrible what the media did to you. It wasn't fair. You were just a little girl, after all.”

“I was eighteen, ma'am,” I say. “But, I appreciate that.”

“I know you were, but still –” she looks over at Archie. “If you were a man, no one would have cared one little bit. Nobody would have said a damn thing. They probably would have patted him on the back.”

“You might be right, miss,” I say, knowing she is one hundred percent right, but figuring it is best to remain polite.

The woman reaches out and shakes my hand. “My name is Clara Peters,” she says with a smile. “I write for the New Southern Woman.”

Ah, so she is with the press. I give her a forced smile as I take my hand back and turn back to Elizabeth.

“Well, it's been nice meeting you, Ms. Peters –”

“Please, call me Clara,” she says.

The look in her eyes is a familiar one. She's hungry – and she smells a story. She’s a shark and there is blood in the water. Suddenly, I feel like a victim all over again, and look to Elizabeth for help.

Clara continues. “Listen, I know you're squeamish about the press, and I don't blame you. Not one little bit,” she says. “But, I promise you, I'm not like that at all.”

She reaches into her purse and pulls out a card. With a smile, she hands it to me. Acting on reflex more than anything, I take it from her and return the smile. It's an act of politeness and common courtesy that's been ingrained in me. Part of my upbringing as a proper Southern lady.

“I won't hound you,” she says. “But, if you ever feel the need to tell your side of the story and clear your name, so to speak, I'm more than happy to help.”

Ice flows through my veins as I stare down at the card with her name and phone number on it. Ever since the “scandal” broke out and my family went into circle-the-wagons mode, I've avoided the press like the plague. Mostly because I've been told to – and have been shielded by my family. But, I've heard that sometimes, it's good to have contacts. Just in case I need my story to reach a wider audience. Not that I think I’ll ever need to do that, but who knows what the future holds.

“I appreciate it, Clara,” I say, tucking it away in my bag.

The waitress serves us our food, and I try to enjoy my brunch, but my mind is filled with too many stray thoughts. Worrying thoughts. Not just about Clara and her blog, but also about my future, Owen's future, and leaving Georgia behind. Matilda and Elizabeth are helping me secure everything I need, and judging by the sound of it, I can be out of Folson Forge within a month. Maybe less if it all goes well.

It all depends on secrecy though. If my family finds out what I'm up to, they'll move against me. Oh sure, they'll let me leave. They'll probably be happier if I do. But, they'll do everything in their power to keep Owen from me. And I'm not leaving without my son.

Which means that until everything is ready, and all my plans are solid, I can't breathe a word of this to anybody other than Elizabeth and Matilda.

Clara and Archie get up to leave, and she gives me a small smile. Clara reaches out and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. Her blue eyes are soft and sympathetic, and even Archie seems to have forgotten Elizabeth's outburst. He smiles and gives me a small nod as they turn and leave.

“Well, they seem nice,” Elizabeth says.

“Is that sarcasm?”

“No, actually. For once in my life, it's not,” she says. “I feel like a total dick for snatching her phone now.”

“Yeah, especially since she wasn't recording or Tweeting our conversation,” I mutter. “Sorry. That's my fault. I'm just so paranoid now.”

“I get it and don't blame you, babe,” she says. “You've been to hell and back. But, seriously, I like her.”

I narrow my gaze as I look at her. Elizabeth doesn't take to the press easily. She's always been a bulldog on my behalf when dealing with the local media, so this all comes as a surprise to me. Sure, Clara seems nice enough, but the media often does – at first. They pose as a sympathetic ear, like they are your best friend and greatest champion. That's how they lure you in – and how the knives start getting plunged into your back.

Elizabeth knows this as well as I do, and she's never fallen for it. She's actually kept me from making that mistake more than a few times. I guess being the sheriff’s daughter has made her a lot savvier than me. But, it makes her reaction to Clara a little curious to me.

“Why?” I ask. “What do you know that I don't?”

Elizabeth shrugs. “I've actually read the blog she mentioned. Good stuff. They've defended you in the past,” she says. “As well as defended women in general. I think they're the real deal and aren't just throwing out exploitative clickbait or peddling in petty drama. Not that I think you should work with her, but, you never know when having someone like her in your corner can come in handy.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I mutter. “So, what was it on her phone that made you sit down so fast?”

Her cheeks burn bright red, but her eyes sparkle, and she lowers her voice. “She was sending a text to Archie.”

“The man sitting across from her?” I ask. “But why would she –”

“She was telling him what she wanted to do to him later. And believe me, it wasn't fit for public consumption,” she says with a laugh, picking at the last of her salad. “Suffice it to say, that woman is a freak. And I respect that.”

“Oh,” I say, finally getting it and feel my own cheeks blushing scarlet.

Elizabeth and I both break out in a nervous, but amused laugh. If Clara cared about Elizabeth reading her scandalous – and private – thoughts, she didn't say anything. Hell, if anything, it made me think better of her. A prim and proper looking woman like that sending dirty texts to her lover who was sitting less than a foot away from her? I can get behind that. It is, after all, 2018.

Even though Folson Forge seems to struggle mightily in coming to terms with that, and the town – or at least, the attitudes and rigid morality of the townspeople – makes it feel like we're stuck in the 1950s.

“So where are you going after this?” I ask.

Elizabeth grins, and she doesn't have to answer that question for me because I already know.

“To Charlie's, huh?” I tease.

“Of course,” she says. “He's off today, and we're going into Atlanta for a show tonight.”

“I'm happy for you, Elizabeth,” I say. “Truly and genuinely happy for you.”

I mean every word of what I say, even though I'm jealous and would love to be living her life right about now. At least one of us was allowed to fall in love and experience life outside of this Podunk, backwards town. Elizabeth glances down at her phone and finishes the last of her tea in one long swallow.

“Shit. I'm sorry, Bree, I just realized what time it is. I have to run home and change,” she says, her face falling. “I'm so sorry –”

“Stop apologizing and go have fun already,” I say, picking up the check before she has a chance to grab it. “I got this. Consider it a thank you for reaching out to your family friend for me.”

Elizabeth hugs me tight and then runs out the door, leaving me alone in the cafe. I glance around at the other tables. Most of the other diners are busy munching away, caught up in their own conversations. I don't spot a single person staring or whispering behind their hands about me.

Which is good. At least the gossip about my appearance in public seems to have died down. The place is fairly empty now, the brunch rush is gone, and the staff is cleaning up, preparing for lunch.

I pay our check, and step outside the cafe. Folson Forge is a relatively small, but growing town, and our downtown area can get pretty busy at times – especially around lunch. Cute little shops and storefronts line the street, making it an appealing place to meander when you have the time. I certainly have the time, so instead of heading for my car right away, I walk toward a used bookstore that has opened up recently. I feel like stretching my legs and enjoying the sunshine for a little while longer.

As I walk on, basking in the warmth of the day, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone getting out of their car beside me. He's a large, muscular man, and even though I'm not directly looking at him, I can tell he's staring straight at me. I finally glance in his direction, my eyes locking on to his for a brief moment.

He's got icy blue eyes as clear and deep as the Caribbean Sea. His dark hair is cut high and tight. His face, however, is a bit rough. Rugged. He's got a beard that covers up most of his features, but those eyes captivate me completely. They hold me fast and ring the bell of familiarity inside my head.

Where have I seen those eyes before? I stop on the sidewalk and turn to him, staring for far too long as I try to place him. It's a good long moment before I realize what I'm doing and feel the heat burst into my cheeks. Giving him an awkward little smile, I start walking again. I hear his feet on the pavement as the man jogs up behind me.

“Bree,” he says. “Hold up.”

His voice causes me to stop and turn around. The voice is deep, rumbles like thunder, and is so powerfully familiar. My heart stops and a feeling, like a strong electric current, runs throughout my body. My throat grows dry and my body begins to tremble as the realization of who this man is, hits me like the proverbial ton of bricks.

“It's me, Milo,” he says. “It's great to see you again, Bree. I –”

Before he can continue, however, I reach my hand back, and slap him across the face. There's a loud pop and stinging sensation erupts in my hand as it meets his flesh, but he laughs as if it doesn't even phase him. His laughter only stokes the fire inside of me even higher, so I slap him again – harder this time. My hand is screaming in pain from the impact, but he chuckles, clearly amused with my efforts.

Third time's a charm, right? I'm going to wipe that damn smile off his smug, arrogant face. I reach back again, but Milo grabs my arm and pushes me backward until I bump up against a nearby building. He pins me there with his body pressed to mine. He's holding both of my hands pinned to the brick building with just one of his massive paws, and his grip so strong, so vice-like that I can't move. He's just too powerful. Too strong.

“Bree, listen,” he says softly. “I just want to talk –”

With my hands restrained, I utilize what I have available to me. I pull my leg back as far as I can and kick him hard in the shin. He flinches but doesn't move away from me. Instead, he moves closer – his body pressing harder to mine, and close enough that his breath is warm against my face. He's so close that I have no choice but to inhale the scent of his cologne.

He smells so good, and his body rubbing against mine does things I'm ashamed to admit. Memories of that night in the gazebo come rushing back, and though I try to push them away, I can't seem to rid my mind of them. There's a sudden warmth inside of me, a need – not to mention a familiar yearning and wetness between my thighs. I have a powerful itch that needs to be scratched after everything he's done to me.

And I hate myself for feeling that way. For being turned on just by being so close to the man.

“Fuck. That one actually hurt a bit,” he says, a cocky smirk on his face.

“You're lucky it wasn't your balls I kicked,” I say.

“Yeah, I kind of deserve that, don't I?” he says.

His smirk is gone and is replaced with a more serious expression. His baby blue eyes, sparkling when I first saw him, have dimmed – though, only a little. For a second, I see something on his face that strikes me as odd. It seems out of character for him, because it looks a lot like regret. And I wonder, if somewhere deep down, he is sorry for what he did to me.

The thought crosses my mind and is gone a second later when I remember that he's a Sheridan. And among the myriad of terrible things they do, they treat women like shit. Like objects. Playthings. Things to be used and abused for their pleasure and entertainment.

“You deserve much more than a kick in the balls, Milo Sheridan,” I say. “You deserve to have them cut off and shoved down your goddamn throat.”

Milo adjusts, and as he presses into me, I feel the hard bulge in his jeans. He's as physically excited about seeing me as I am him – which tells me that he too, remembers our exploits in the gazebo. Which sends an idle thought spinning through my mind – has Milo Sheridan ever masturbated thinking about that night like I have?

The thought of him stroking his cock while thinking about me – while thinking about what we'd done – sets my mind ablaze. Twin rivers of lust and desire rush through me in a torrent and one half of my mind is screaming to take him home and fuck him. To relive that night of unfettered passion. That night when the only thing that mattered was the way our bodies had fit together.

Physically, my body is responding to him in a profound way. I want him. Want to feel him deep inside of me again. Except, of course, I still hate his guts. Lust isn't going to make me stupid a second time – no matter how attractive he is. And no matter how strong the pull of lust is in my body.

“Bree, listen,” he says, licking his lips as he looks down at his feet. “About that...”

His voice trails off for a moment and he lets go of my hands but doesn't move away. His body is still pressed to mine, and I'm tempted to slap him again. Instead of hitting him though, I put my hands flat against his chest. His muscles are taut underneath his shirt, and I resist the urge to run my hands over the strong, smooth angles and planes of his body. Instead, I push him backward with everything I've got. He doesn't budge, not even an inch. It's obvious that I don't have the strength to move him, but he finally takes pity on me and steps back, giving me some breathing room at last.

Milo runs a hand through his hair and scratches at his thick beard, looking at me with an inscrutable expression. He opens his mouth to speak and I find myself curious about what he'll say. Honestly, what can he say? Before I can find out, however, he's cut off by the sudden sound of my brother's voice from behind him.

“Is that who I think it is?” Clyde hisses. “Son of a bitch. Milo Sheridan. Are you really assaulting my sister out in public? Though, I guess I should be grateful that this time, you're not hiding behind a mask and doing it in private, right?”

Milo doesn't turn around. I can see the effort he's making to not respond to my brother – a tough task, to be sure. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are narrowed. A dark expression passes through his eyes, but he's holding himself together. For now, at least.

In an instant, Milo stumbles forward, crushing me between the building and his body. He quickly pushes himself backwards to give me some air, and it's then that I see Clyde standing behind him, fists balled, pure hatred upon his face.

“Clyde, stop it,” I say. “I'm fine –”

“Just like you were fine the night of your birthday party, sis?” Clyde says. “Go home, Bree. I got this.”

Milo turns to face my brother and I fear the worst. He's at least twice my brother's size. Milo has become a large, powerful looking man with thick, corded muscle. He's obviously in great shape and takes care of his body The Marine Corps seems to have treated him well.

My brother, on the other hand, is more of a weekend athlete these days. Oh, back in the day, he was in tip-top shape. But, a comfortable desk job, running our family's hardware store empire, too many good meals – and his inability to pass one up – combined with drinking, smoking cigars, and only getting in the odd game of squash or racquetball here and there, have all combined to make him a little soft around the middle. He’s not anywhere near the athlete he used to be.

If he decides to throw down with Milo, my stupid brother is going to get himself killed. And as much as I hate him, I don't want to see him beaten to death in the middle of Sutter.

“Leave it alone, Clyde,” I say.

“No can do, sis.”

“Stop being an asshole,” I reply. “You do realize this man is a trained Marine, don't you? You do know that he can kill you with only those two hands of his.”

“I also know what he did to you, sis,” Clyde says. “I've got righteous rage on my side. I wouldn't count me out yet, if I were you.”

Through all the back and forth between my brother and I, Milo has said nothing. He just stands there, mostly looking at Clyde. Sizing him up. He stands there casually, but I know the minute the action starts, Milo will be ready. He reminds me of a bomb waiting to go off.

There's a sense of implied violence in his eyes. I can tell that he's a man who knows how to fight and isn't afraid of it. When you flip that switch and turn on the Marine inside, you're shutting off his humanity. Basically, you're going to need luck to survive.

“You're not doing this for me, Clyde,” I say. “You're doing it for your own damn ego and pride.”

“Whatever,” Clyde sneers.

With an animalistic growl, Clyde lunges at Milo, and just as I thought, the former Marine is more than ready. He sidesteps my brother, landing a blow to his nose and the back of the head in a rapid movement that sends my brother staggering to the ground. Clyde ends up on his hands and knees, a dazed look on his face, blood dripping from his nose.

He shakes his head and narrows his eyes, and I see a familiar look of indignant rage cross his features. If there's one thing Clyde really doesn't like, it's being outdone. He gets to his feet and rushes at Milo again, his face red, fury burning in his eyes.

The way he handles my brother almost seems like an adult with a child. Milo waits until Clyde gets close enough and then grabs him, puts him in some type of a body lock, and takes him to the ground.

To be fair, Clyde continues throwing punches as he goes down – not that he lands a single effective one. I grab hold of Milo's shoulders and try to yank him off my brother, but he doesn't move an inch. There's no way I'm going to be able to pull this very large, powerful man off my brother. No matter how hard I try.

Milo delivers a wicked punch to my brother's stomach and I hear the air leave his body in a loud whoosh. Clyde remains on his knees, eyes wide, gasping for air, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

The wheezing noise coming from his throat sounds pitiful – and I have to stifle the laugh that's threatening to burst out of my throat. That won't do anybody any good – least of all me. When Clyde regains his composure, he is going to be pissed at the humiliation he suffered today, and he's going to take this out on his favorite target. Me. The favorite family whipping girl.

Milo, pulls himself off Clyde and stands up, brushing off his hands. “I'm not doing this, Clyde,” he growls. “I'm done with this stupid bullshit.”

My heart melts for a moment as our eyes meet. His eyes sparkle and in that gaze, a shared look of remembered pleasure passes between us. My knees grow weak and my insides turn to mush, as I see the guy with the red-and-black mask from all those years ago –not the asshole who ruined my life.

“I'm sorry, Bree,” he says. “I just wanted to talk –”

Clyde is finally back on his feet. His face is an unnatural shade of red and he's still gasping a bit, but he seems to be steadying himself. He glares balefully at Milo, and I fear he's going to rush him again. Instead, he grabs my arm roughly. He's squeezing my arm so hard, I have to bite back a yelp of pain.

“Leave my sister alone,” Clyde jeers. “Dick.”

“Clyde, please,” I say softly. “You're hurting me.”

I try to pull my arm free from my brother's grip to no use. He pulls me along the street like a misbehaving child, and I eventually stop struggling and follow him. I turn back and see Milo watching us go with his frosty blue eyes, a blank expression on his face.

I can't do much as Clyde drags me away, but I can at least show him how I feel. I flip Milo the finger as Clyde opens his car door and shoves me inside.