Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(4)

“Yeah, Coop,” Preston taunts. Then, to his buddies, “No piece of townie ass is worth this much trouble.”

I look at Steph and shrug. Rich prick should have walked away when I gave him the chance.

While he’s still laughing, so smug in his superiority, I reach out, grab a fistful of his Ralph Lauren and drive my fist straight into his face.

He staggers, falling into his friends, who push him at me. Bloody, he lunges like a creature in the third act of a horror film, swinging at me, smearing blood. We crash into the screaming sorority girls until we’re against a wall. The old payphone that hasn’t operated in fifteen years digs into my back, which gives Preston a chance to land a lucky punch to my jaw. Then I spin us around, pin him against the drywall. I’m about to smash his damn face in when Joe, the owner, along with Daryl and Lenny, hold me back and drag me away.

“You stupid townie trash,” he gurgles at me. “You have any idea how dead you are?”

“Enough!” Joe shouts. The grizzled Vietnam vet with a gray hippie beard and ponytail points a fat finger at Preston. “Get on out of here. There’s no fighting in my bar.”

“I want this psycho fired,” Preston orders.

“Kiss my ass.”

“Coop, shut it,” Joe says. He lets Lenny and Daryl release me. “I’m docking your pay for this.”

“It wasn’t Coop’s fault,” Steph tells our boss. “This guy was all over me. Then he followed me to the supply closet and trapped me in the hallway. Cooper was trying to kick him out.”

“Do you know who my father is?” Squeezing his leaking nose shut, Preston seethes. “His bank owns half the buildings on this filthy boardwalk. One word from me and your life gets real complicated.”

Joe’s lips tighten.

“Your employee put his hands on me,” Preston continues angrily. “I don’t know how you run this rathole, but if this happened anywhere else, the person who assaulted a customer would no longer be employed.” The smirk on his face actually makes my fists tingle. I want to strangle him with my bare hands. “So either you handle this, or I pick up the phone and call my father to do it for you. I know it’s late, but don’t you worry, he’ll be awake. He’s a night owl.” The smirk deepens. “That’s how he made all his billions.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

Then Joe lets out a sigh, turning to me.

“You can’t be serious,” I say in amazement.

Joe and I go back a ways. My brother and I used to barback here in the summers during high school. We helped him rebuild after two hurricanes. I took his daughter to homecoming, for chrissake.

Looking resigned, he runs a hand over his beard.

“Joe. Seriously, man. You’re gonna let one of them tell you how to run your bar?”

“I’m sorry,” Joe finally says. He shakes his head. “I have to think about my business. My family. You went too far this time, Coop. Take what I owe you for the night out of the register. I’ll have a check for you in the morning.”

Satisfied with himself, Richie Rich sneers at me. “See, townie? That’s how the real world works.” He tosses a bloody wad of cash at Steph and spits out a thick clump of blood and mucus. “Here. Clean this place up, sweetheart.”

“This isn’t over,” I warn Preston as he and his friends saunter away.

“It was over before it began,” he calls snidely over his shoulder. “You’re the only one who didn’t know that.”

Staring at Joe, I see the defeat in his eyes. He doesn’t have the strength or desire to fight these battles anymore. That’s how they get us. By inches. Breaking us down until we’re too tired to hold on any longer. Then they pry our land, our businesses, our dignity from our dying hands.

“You know,” I tell Joe, picking up the cash and smacking it in his hand. “Every time one of us gives in to one of them, we make it a little easier for them to screw us the next time.”

Except … no. Fuck the “next time.” These people are never getting a next time from me.





CHAPTER TWO


MACKENZIE

Since leaving my parents’ house in Charleston this morning, I’ve had an itch in the back of my skull, and it only keeps growing more insistent, telling me to turn around. Take off. Run away. Join the proverbial circus and rage, rage against the dying of my gap year.

Now, as my taxi drives through the tunnel of bur oaks to Tally Hall on the Garnet College campus, a pure cold panic has set in.

This is really happening.

Beyond the green lawn and lines of cars, swarming freshmen and their parents cart boxes into the redbrick building stretching four stories into the clear blue sky. White trim frames the rows of windows and the roof, a distinct characteristic of one of the five original buildings on the historic campus.

“I’ll be right back to grab those boxes,” I tell my driver. I sling my duffel over my shoulder, and set my rolling suitcase on the ground. “Just want to make sure I’m in the right place.”

“No prob. Take your time.” He’s unruffled, probably because my parents paid him a huge flat fee to play chauffeur for the day.

As I walk under the massive iron lantern that hangs from the beam above the front doors, I feel like a captured fugitive returning after a year on the lam. It was too good to last. How am I supposed to go back to homework and pop quizzes? My life dictated by TAs and syllabi when I’ve been my own boss for the last twelve months.