“Swing,” Davis says.

I stupidly try to sit up and swing.

Hunter clasps my fist and shoves me down. The back of my head hits snow. His knuckles land in my stomach. In my ribs, over and over. I heave for breath and try to curl into a fetal position.

Fuck.

“Stop,” I gasp, clawing at the snow to get the fuck out.

Hunter drags me back, about to put me in another hold, and I kick his chest.

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” I yell into the deadened air. Somewhere down the street, I think I hear Christmas music.

I don’t want to hear it.

I don’t want to hear it.

Please don’t let these bastards ruin Christmas music for me. Please let me keep something. I thrash and must connect with Hunter’s dick because he backs off a little, clutching his crotch. Davis kicks snow in my face before I can get up.

I cough and wipe it out of my eyes. My whole face scalds painfully. My throat feels raw, but I can’t tell if that’s from screaming or the cold.

Staggering to my feet, I rise without another blow. Mitchell picks up the football off the snow and throws the thing in a clean arch to Davis. He catches the ball like we’re still playing.

While they’re distracted, I do what I’ve done since I was a teenager.

I stumble to my feet and I bolt.

“GARRISON!” Davis yells.

I don’t look back, my feet carrying me to my car in the driveway. I’m shaking, and I fumble with the keys before I unlock the door.

Slipping inside the Mustang, I turn on the ignition. Heat almost immediately blasts from the vents. Great car, thank you. Exhaust gurgles from the pipes.

My hands are still quaking. My teeth clanking together, but I glance through my rearview and start to back out.

I almost think Hunter might stand at the end of the driveaway just to fuck with me and block me in. But the three of them don’t move off the yard. And I start to get it.

Why they always let me go…

Because when I run away, I seem like the petulant child. Like the overly sensitive son who can’t handle playing rough with his brothers.

Fuck that.

Fuck them.

I leave anyway.

She can tell something is wrong.

I never told Willow that I was having dinner at my parent’s mansion. Even now, I don’t tell her about what just happened with my brothers—how Hunter repeatedly nailed me in the ribs.

Part of me is ashamed. Shame is strong, even years later when I know my brothers are complete shit and it can’t be all my fault. Right?

But she can sense that something’s off—just over the phone. Elevators to my apartment complex are out of order, so I take the stairs. Slowly, one of my arms hovering around my battered ribs.

With the other hand, I press my cell to my ear, my boots making wet puddles on the concrete steps.