“I won’t do that.”
At least not for him. When I fuck Banner, it’ll be purely for me and for her.
“And she’s not fat,” I snap.
Prescott’s abrupt laughter shatters the quiet only he and I break at intervals while everyone else watches.
“We’ll say pleasingly plump if that makes you feel better, Foster.” His mouth zigzags into an icicle smile. “Either way, fuck her or you won’t get in.”
Later, when logic and a cooler head prevails, I’ll make sense of this, but right now I only know that Prescott, for some reason, wants to demean Banner and thought he would use me to do it.
“The only fucking there will be, Prescott,” I grind out, “is however you manage to fuck yourself.”
Bent groans behind me—the first sign that he is, unlike the rest of the waxen zombies assembled around the table, alive.
“Foster,” Bent hisses at my elbow. “All you have to do—”
“Shut the hell up.” I whip a look around to him. “You knew about this?”
“Good God, Foster,” Prescott intones from the head of the table. “Put a bag over her head and take the top so she doesn’t crush you. It’ll be over before you know it.”
I stand so abruptly my chair falls behind me and crashes to the floor. His words have barely polluted the air before I’m at his side and have one of his arms twisted behind his back and his face pressed to the table.
The other guys mumble and cough and protest weakly, but I spread a glare around the table in case any of them feel the need to defend this motherfucker whom they don’t even like or respect. The Pride? Give me a damn break. These men aren’t lions. They’re sheep who follow and bray.
“You’re making a huge mistake, Foster,” Prescott screams, straining futilely to loosen my hold on his arm and head. “No way you’re in after this.”
“You tiny-dick son of a bitch,” I growl. “Do I look like I still want to be in your pathetic secret treehouse club?”
I tighten my grip on his arm, watching with satisfaction the discomfort pinching his features.
“Not only do I officially withdraw my bid for admission to this foolishness you’re masquerading as brotherhood,” I bend to say in his ear, “but if I hear you bothered or hurt Banner in any way, I’ll beat you with your own belt and knock the teeth down your throat.”
I release him and he immediately surges to his feet and turns on me, stepping so close our noses almost meet. His beer-scented breath huffs into the small space separating us. I don’t step back but let my rage and his wrestle in the tension-tightened air.
“Do it,” I whisper, fists clenched and ready at my sides. “I’d relish beating you in front of them.”