2. Jeremiah

Chapter 2

Jeremiah

I 've tossed and turned for the last two hours, desperate for sleep to claim me, but my mind won't turn off. I'm not going to sugarcoat it; I can't stay here right now and do nothing. I planned on handling it tomorrow, but fuck that. Because when you fuck with what's mine, patience leaves the fucking building. My money is on the fucking frat boy, considering he was circling and sniffing around my girl like a dog.

I scroll the frat social pages on the campus website until I come across the same letters that were sprawled across that dude's chest. Zooming in on the dumb little fucking portraits they take, I find him.

Brock Matthewson. Senior and a ‘business major'. No need to tell me that daddy Matthewson coddles you and probably is worse than you in his behavior.

Switching apps, I jab at the screen, my thumb hammering down hard enough I keep fucking missing the right letters. The phone lights up with my tech wizard little cousin Ramsey's contact, and I curse loudly .

The phone rings, once, twice, mocking me, "Come on, come on…"

"Jeremiah?" His tone is groggy. Probably just woke him up. Why the fuck is he asleep so early on a weekend, anyway?

"Rams, listen up," I cut in, no time for pleasantries. "I need you at the house. Now. And I need you to track where Brock Matthewson is. He was at the party tonight, but if he left, I want to know."

"What's going on?" He's alert now, his tone sharpening. Having a hacker in the family comes in handy sometimes.

"Just get your ass over here and get me his location," I snap. "It's urgent. Oakley's involved, and I need you to do this for me." I hang up before he can ask any more questions. No point wasting time explaining the mess right now. He can get the cliff notes version from me later.

My cousin bursts through the front door just as I reach the bottom of the stairs. He looks half-awake, but his bag is slung over one shoulder, no doubt filled with a variety of tech shit. "What the hell is going on?"

"I've gotta go handle something and I need you to stay here and just keep an ear out for Oak," I grit out. "But you're not to go near her unless you hear her retching or fucking screaming."

"Alright," Ramsey nods, throwing his hands up. "I like my balls right where they are and so do the puck bunnies, so I won't go near your little librarian. I sent that fuckhead's location to your phone. You're welcome, by the way."

Rolling my eyes, I leave the house and head straight for my bike. The engine roars to life under my hands. The scent of gasoline fills the air, sharp and acrid, mixing with the faint smell of pine from the woods nearby.

Arriving at the old, unmanned gas station right outside of town, I spot Brock leaning against a rusty old pickup truck, watching the dial click as he fills his tank. That cocky smirk on his face sends my anger into overdrive. I park my bike hard, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and step off, fists clenched tightly at my sides. The place smells like stale cigarettes and cheap beer, a fitting backdrop for the showdown that's about to go down.

"Jeremiah Blackwood," Brock greets me, his tone oozing with fake friendliness. "What brings you here?"

"Looks like you know who the fuck I am now, Brock," I snap, my words dripping venom. "You drugged Oakley."

"Drugged? I don't know what you're talking about, man." He raises his hands in mock innocence, but I can see the lie in his eyes.

"You fucked with the wrong damn one." My rage is unrelenting. I close the distance between us in a few quick strides and grab him by the collar of his douchebag frat polo, lifting him slightly off the ground. "Just what the fuck were you planning to do and spare me the excuses. We both know this wasn't your first time. You're a piece of shit."

"Hey, hey, calm down!" he sputters, trying to wriggle free from my grip. "I didn't do anything!"

"Shut up!" My grip tightens with each passing second. The world around us seems to fade, leaving only the sound of our heavy breathing and the distant hum of the gas station lights.

"You're gonna pay for this, Brock," I hiss through gritted teeth, bringing my face closer to his, feeling my anger mingling with the cool night air. His eyes dart around, searching for an escape, but there isn't one. Not now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot it—a baseball bat lying in the back of his pickup. Perfect. I can feel my eyes crinkle just a bit at the corners as I release my hold on Brock. He stumbles back, gasping for air, but I'm already moving.

"Think you can throw me around?" he sputters, trying to regain his cocky composure. "You don't scare me, Blackwood."

"Good," I say, tone cold and even. "Because I'm not here to scare you."

I grab the bat, feeling the rough wood under my fingers. My knuckles turn white as I tighten my grip. Brock's eyes widen, finally realizing the gravity of the situation.

"Whoa, man, let's talk about this," he pleads, backing up against the truck. "We can work something out!"

"Talk time's over," I snarl. "Actions have consequences, Brock. And I'm the fucking consequence you never saw coming."

I lift the bat over my shoulder. The world narrows down to the sound of my heartbeat and the adrenaline surging through my veins.

"Jeremiah, please—" His words break off as I bring the bat crashing down. The sickening sound of bone meeting wood echoes through the night, sending a shiver down my spine. Brock crumples to the ground, but I don't stop. Swing after swing, the bat connects with flesh and bone, each impact urging me to go further.

"You disgust me. She could've died!" I roar, punctuating each word with a strike. Blood splatters across my clothes, the metallic scent mingling with the smell of gasoline and sweat. Brock's pleas turn to gurgles, then silence.

I finally stop, chest heaving, staring down at what I've done. Brock lies motionless, blood pooling around him, staining the gravel dark red. For a moment, everything is still. The only sound is my ragged breathing and the distant hum of the lights .

"Fuck," I whisper to myself, the reality of now needing to clean this shit up hitting me.

"I told you that you fucked with the wrong one, Brock," I murmur, more to myself than to him. I drop the bat, letting it clatter to the ground, and wipe a smear of blood from my brow.

"Shit," I whisper, pulling out my phone. My fingers fumble as I navigate to Penn's contact. We always knew days like this would happen from a young age. My brothers and I have a code word prepared for just about everything. I type quickly, the prearranged word glaring up at me.

Hotwheel

"Come on, Penn," I hiss, hitting send. The seconds stretch into agonizing minutes. I keep glancing at Brock's lifeless form, half-expecting him to jerk awake like some horror movie villain.

The phone finally vibrates in my hand. Penn taking his sweet ass time to answer while I'm having a damn crisis.

Pennywise

I love it when you talk cars to me

Relief floods through me, but it's short-lived. I need to get back to Oakley. She needs me, no matter what she says in her intoxicated state.

I take another look around, ensuring no prying eyes are watching. The hum of the cicadas buzzes in my ears, the night eerily silent otherwise.

Before I can even process it, headlights pierce the darkness. Penn's jumping out of a truck that rumbles into view.

"Jere, my man," Penn calls out as he hops down from the passenger seat, his grin wide and almost too casual for the situation. "Looks like you had a bit of fun without me."

"Shut up and help me," I snap, my tone harsher than intended. But there's no time for Penn's comedic bullshit.

"Alright, alright," Penn chuckles, but there's an edge to it—a hint of excitement that's unsettling. He flips his hat backward, ready to help me clean this shit up. He steps around the truck, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the tattoos snaking up his arms. The truck drives away and if I thought for one minute it was someone who would say something I'd question it, but whoever dropped my brother off has clearly been vetted by him.

"Let's get this over with," I say, bending down to grab Brock by the ankles. His body is heavier than I anticipated, dead weight that pulls at my muscles.

"On three," Penn says, taking hold of Brock's shoulders. "One…two…three."

We heave him up; the effort drawing a grunt from both of us. The sound of Brock's lifeless body hitting the bed of the truck is sickening, a dull thud that seems to echo in the stillness of the night.

"Good riddance, fucker," Penn mutters, brushing his hands off on his jeans. He turns to me, that sly grin back in place. "You gonna be okay, pretty boy?"

"Just get it done," I reply, my voice tight. "I need to get back to the house."

"Don't worry," Penn says, giving me a mock salute before climbing into the driver's seat of Brock's truck. "I'll take care of everything. You go play knight in shining armor."

"Fuck off, Penn," I shoot back, but there's no real anger in it. Just exhaustion .

He laughs, the sound carefree and almost jarring given the circumstances. "I gotta go see a man about a junkyard."

With a final sarcastic salute, he drives off into the night, the taillights fading into the distance. I stand there for a moment, the silence pressing in once again.

The urgency to get back to my bunny gnaws at me, driving me forward. I swing my leg over the bike seat, the engine roaring to life beneath me.

I throttle the bike, as blood still pumps hot in my veins, and I can't shake the image of Brock crumpling under the bat's brutal swing. The rush was intoxicating.

The whips at my face, seeping into my helmet and making my eyes water a bit. I need to get back to her. To make sure she's safe.

I kill the engine and glide to a halt as I pull up to the house. Silence envelops me, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl. Every creak of the wood as I push open the door sounds so loud.

I walk across the foyer and up the stairs before I walk into my bathroom.

I strip off my clothes, the scent of sweat and blood clinging to them. They hit the floor with a thud.

"Fuck," I hiss, stepping into the shower. Hot water pelts my skin, washing away the tension in my body. Steam swirls around me, thick and suffocating, but also cleansing. I lean my forehead against the cool tile, washing away the grime.

The water mingles with the remnants of blood on my hands, turning pink before swirling down the drain. I scrub harder, nails digging into my skin, trying to erase any evidence. The scent of iron fades, replaced by the sterile aroma of soap.

I turn off the water, the sudden silence almost deafening. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I step out of the shower, droplets still clinging to my skin.

I push open the door to my bedroom, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on me. The room is dimly lit, the soft glow from the bedside lamp casting a warm halo around Oakley's sleeping form. She lies curled up under the covers, her golden hair splayed out on the pillow.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, rubbing a hand over my face. The adrenaline has left me, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. Each step feels like I'm trudging through quicksand.

"Rem?" The word is a whisper, barely cutting through the thick silence of the room. My heart skips a beat, and I freeze. Did she wake up? No, she's probably just murmuring in her sleep.

"Shh, bunny, it's okay," I murmur softly, slipping into bed beside her. The mattress dips under my weight, and she instinctively shifts closer, her warmth seeping into me. I feel a flicker of something—peace, maybe—as I watch her breath steadily.

"You're safe now," I whisper, more to myself than to her. Her steady breaths are a balm to my nerves, each exhale grounding me.

"Why'd you have to get mixed up in this shit, Oak?" I ask quietly, not expecting an answer. The memory of Brock's bloodied face flashes before my eyes, but I force it away, focusing instead on the gentle rise and fall of Oakley's chest.

"I missed you, Rem, but you're always gone in the morning. I wish my dreams could last forever." Her tone is tinged with a sleepy confusion.