Interim(122)

“Why was it a douchebag move?” Regan asked.

Jeremy shook his head. “It’s just a thing that’s understood between guys. You don’t go there. That’s how girls fight.”

Regan considered the explanation.

“I should have kicked him in the balls,” she said after a moment.

Jeremy smirked. “Oh yeah? When?”

“When he hit me.”

“WHAT?”

She placed her hand on his arm. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? Are you kidding me?” Jeremy cried. “When did he hit you?”

“My birthday,” she replied.

“I knew it! I knew something was up with you that night. Stranger at your car door . . . Give me a break.”

She smiled sheepishly.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

“Why would I, Jeremy? So I could see you like this? So I could have you defend me? I don’t need you to defend me.”

“You’re my girl. You better believe I’m defending you,” he said. “I’m gonna kill that motherfu—”

“STOP,” Regan ordered. “You are never ever allowed to say that word again. It’s all over the place with you. You’re gonna kill this person. You’re gonna kill that person. You’re gonna kill the entire world!”

Jeremy clenched his jaw. Regan noticed.

“You know what? I’m glad he slapped me. You know why? Because he slapped some sense into me.”

Jeremy stared at her in disbelief. “Regan, you need help.”

She burst into a fit of giggles. “You telling me that?”

He said nothing.

“You?” she went on, laughing hysterically. “You telling me I need help?”

“Are you finished?”

“I might still be with that jerk if he didn’t smack me.”

“Stop telling me he hit you,” Jeremy said. He was already making plans in his head—devising a new scheme for payback.

“I’m just saying that it gave me perspective.”

“Stop excusing what he did,” Jeremy said.

“I’m not excusing it. I’m trying to make a joke of it . . . like Hannah would!”

He rolled his eyes. She slipped her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Where else are you hurt?” she asked softly.

“Who knows? My ribs are killing me.”

“Let me see,” Regan said, tugging on the front of his T-shirt.

“You can’t see ribs,” Jeremy replied.

“The bruising,” Regan explained.

“It’s probably purple.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Just take off your shirt! Can’t you see I’m trying to get you to take off your shirt?” she cried.

He swallowed. He wasn’t expecting this turn of events. How could he concentrate on anything sexual when all he could think about was shoving his 9 mm in that space between Brandon’s eyes?

“Where are you?” she sang softly.

He tried for a smile.

“What’s going on in your head, Jer?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do I make you pay attention to me?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

She sighed and stood up abruptly—directly in front of him—pulling her shirt over her head. She tossed it to the side and waited. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Essentially, he was a heavy marble statue teetering teetering teetering . . . oh, there it went, crashing onto her confidence and smashing it to bits. She wrapped her waist protectively, hunching over, trying to hide within herself.

“No,” he said softly. “Don’t do that.”

She dropped her arms.

He stared shamelessly at her bra, knowing it was the flimsiest material barring his eyes from her naked breasts. And he wanted to look at them. And touch them. And kiss them. Suddenly, he felt fine! His back miraculously healed! Broken ribs? Nope! Superficial bruise at best. Adrenaline was a powerful drug. It dulled all the pain at exactly the right time.

“Regan,” he whispered.

She took hold of his hand and guided it to her right breast.

“Oh my God,” he breathed.

He didn’t move. He didn’t squeeze. He just sat there with his palm pressed against her amazing tit. He couldn’t get the words out of his head: amazing tit. He almost said them aloud. He knew he mouthed them.