Everything After Sunday

Sunday Night 11/19

The bass in the house was vibrating right through the soles of Jonathan’s beat-up sneakers. It was Sunday night, and the clock was ticking on getting any fun in before school tomorrow.

Jonathan wasn’t really participating, however, He was just... lingering. His friends had bailed an hour ago to chase some sophomore girls, but Jonathan was stuck. His older brother, Ben, was his ride and was currently in the kitchen, discussing ways to “get bread” with the host of the party.

Jonathan took another sip from his red Solo cup, leaning against a doorframe and watching a couple grind on each other to the beat of the music. His eyes skimmed over them and towards a quieter corner of the party. That’s when he saw her.

Nora Whitmore.

Nora was the Pastor’s kid. Front-row-at-church, straight-A’s, never-broken-a-rule type of girl. He swore he even heard her ask forextrahomework once. Seeing her here made him think he was seeing things. He had to blink a few times and rub his eyes just to make sure the alcohol wasn’t messing with his vision.Nope. It was really her

And she was absolutely wasted.

She was swaying near the stairs, surrounded by three guys Jonathan recognized as football players. Her father would have a heart attack at the sight. Nora’s eyes were glazed over, unfocused, and glassy. One of the guys had his hand resting low on her waist, close to groping her ass.

The sight made something uncomfortable twist in Jonathan’s gut.

He watched as they crowded her, their voices low and insistent, trying to herd her toward the darkened hallway leading to the bedrooms. Nora stumbled, hiccuping loudly, completely out of it.

Aw, hell naw, Jonathan thought, already feeling the headache coming on. He should just look away. Maybe this was some kind of kink she had; the innocent ones were always the freakiest.

But then he remembered the times she’d actually been decent to him. Small stuff, like holding a door or smiling in the hallway when none of her uptight friends were watching. He guessed that counted for something.

His hard expression softened just a fraction. He tipped his head back, draining the last sips of the alcohol, and set the empty red cup down on a nearby speaker with a decisive thud.

With a groan, Jonathan pushed off the doorframe.

He covered the distance to the stairs before he could fully talk himself out of it and physically inserted himself into their tight huddle, shouldering past the two wingmen like they weren’t even there. He planted himself squarely between Nora and the lead guy, his shoulder bumping the guy hard enough to knock his hand right off her waist.

“Hey, Nora,” Jonathan said, his voice flat, ignoring the guys entirely. “Your dad’s car is outside.” He gritted his teeth at how obvious that lie sounded.

The three guys bristled. The vibe shifted instantly from predatory to aggressive as they puffed up, stepping into Jonathan’s space.

The lead guy stumbled back a half-step, blinking in aggressive confusion at the sudden intrusion. “Who the fu-” He squinted, the dim, pulsing party lights making it hard to focus on the cockblocker getting in his face. He was too drunk and too entitled to care who it was; he just knew his fun was being interrupted.

He stepped right back into Jonathan’s personal space, puffing his chest out. His breath reeked of cheap vodka. “Listen here, asshole. You tell Daddy his little girl istiedup right now.”

One of the wingmen behind him snickered nastily, swaying a little on his feet. “Yeah. And tell him to shove his Bible up his ass while he waits.”

The lead guy stepped close to Nora again, ignoring Jonathan and looking down as she swayed dazedly. He threw a heavy arm around Nora’s shoulders, jerking her tight against his side to stop her from swaying over.

“Look at her. She ain’t leaving.” He gave Nora a rough squeeze, prompting her. “Right,babe? Tell this loser your old man can fuck off.”

Nora’s head lolled against his chest. Her eyes were barely open. She mumbled a slurry, compliant, “Yeah... fuck off.”

The guy smirked triumphantly at Jonathan. “See? She’s happy where she’s at.”

That smirk did it. A wave of pure disgust rolled through Jonathan. He didn’t know Nora all that well, but nobody deserved to be used like a prop by a piece of trash like this, especially when they couldn’t even stand up. The guy’s arrogance, totally ignoring him, only made it worse.

He was done talking.

Jonathan moved fast. He didn’t say another word; he just reached out, his hand clamping down hard on the jock’s forearm. With a sharp, upwards yank, he ripped the guy’s heavy arm away from Nora’s shoulders. Nora stumbled without the support, swaying dangerously on her heels.

The sudden movement acted like a magnet in the crowded room. Even through the thumping bass of the music, the sound of a brewing fight traveled fast. Nearby, conversations died out, and heads turned, people nudging their friends and pointing toward the stairs. A few kids even stood up on couches to get a better view, their faces lit by the rhythmic, unnatural flashes of the strobe lights, waiting for the first punch to land.

The lead guy bellowed in outrage. “The fuck is your problem? Let go!”

The predatory smugness vanished, replaced instantly by pure, drunken aggression. He whipped around, squaring up to Jonathan. His free hand bunched into a tight fist, drawing back for a haymaker aimed right at Jonathan’s jaw.

“I’m gonna lay you the f—”

The threat died in his throat.

The sudden movement brought them face-to-face in the strobing light. The fist was halfway thrown when the guy’s eyes locked onto Jonathan’s grabbing hand. Specifically, the inside of his wrist, where his sleeve had ridden up.

It wasn’t a clean tattoo. It was a jagged letter ‘M’, looking less like professional ink and more like it had been crudely carved into the skin with a dull blade and rubbed with ash. It was ugly, scarred, and permanent.

The recognition hit the jock like a bucket of ice water. The momentum of the punch died instantly. His fist hovered in the air, trembling slightly, inches from Jonathan’s unmoved face.

“Oh... shit,” the guy breathed. The aggression didn’t just fade; it evaporated into panic. He looked at the tattoo, then finally up at Jonathan’s face, connecting the dots. “Wait. You’re... you’re Ben’s brother. Right?”

Jonathan stayed perfectly still. He didn’t lean back or even widen his eyes. He just met the jock’s gaze with a heavy, dead-eyed stare that made the other guy’s previous aggression feel like a toddler’s tantrum.

“Didn’t know she was with you, man,” the guy stammered, his voice jumping an octave as he lowered his hand. He laughed, a short, nervous sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “Seriously. We were just... we were just lookin’ out for her. You know how it is. Since it’s the Pastor’s girl and all.”

Behind him, the two wingmen were already backpedaling, their “street” posturing replaced by a sudden, desperate need to be anywhere else. They knew the debt their leader carried; they knew Ben wasn’t the type to forgive an insult to his blood.

The lead guy reached out. It was a clumsy, overly-familiar move. A heavy, nervous pat on Jonathan’s shoulder. He’s demeanor now changing, he was trying to act like they were on the same level, like they were all part of the same “crew.”

“We’re good, right? Just a misunderstanding.” He squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder once, way too hard, before pulling his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove. “Tell Ben I’ll have that... thing for him by Tuesday. For real. And uh Say hi to him for us, yeah?”

He didn’t wait for an answer from Jonathan. He turned, signaling his friends with a jerk of his head, and the three of them vanished into anither part of the house, moving with the kind of frantic speed people usually save for escaping a fire.

As they scrambled away, the momentary “ring” of spectators dissolved. The kids who had been standing on couches for a better view hopped down with collective groans of disappointment. Once it became clear that the “fight” was just a quick backpedal and a nervous apology, the entertainment was over. The music, which had seemed like background noise during the confrontation, suddenly felt deafening again as the crowd turned back to their drinks and their own dramas. Within seconds, Jonathan and a swaying Nora were effectively invisible again, swallowed by the pulsing lights and the smell of alcohol.

Jonathan stood perfectly still for a beat, the spot on his shoulder where the guy had touched him feeling like it was covered in grease. He let out a slow, jagged breath, his jaw still tight.

He turned his gaze to Nora. She was currently leaning heavily against the banister, her eyes glazed and her head tilting at an angle that suggested she might lose her footing at any second.

He reached out, steadying her just as her knees buckled pulling her close. “You good, church girl?”

She didn’t answer. The flush of the alcohol had drained out of her face, leaving her a sickly, translucent grey. Her eyes went wide and unfocused, and her jaw tightened in that rhythmic, desperate way that only meant one thing.

“Oh, hell naw. Not on me.”

Jonathan didn’t wait. He hooked her arm over his neck and dug his hand into her waist, practically hoisting her off the floor. He didn’t “carry” her so much as he hauled her, her feet scuffing uselessly against the hardwood. He shouldered through a group of girls near the entrance, who shrieked as Nora’s limp form nearly collided with them, and kicked the front door open.

The November air hit them like a slap, but Nora didn’t even shiver; the alcohol in her system kept her warm. Jonathan hauled her past the porch and toward the edge of the dormant, frost-bitten lawn. He barely got her away from his shoes before she collapsed, her hands hitting the cold dirt as she violently emptied her stomach.

He’d seen his boys hurl plenty of times; it was usually just part of the night, something to laugh at before moving on to the next house. But this was Nora.

Seeing her like this... it was wild. The whole “perfect student ” act was absent here.

Jonathan stood back, his eyes wandering toward the house. The bass was still thumping through the walls, and the light from the windows looked way more inviting than standing on a freezing lawn in the dark.

He’d done his bit, right? He’d run those losers off. He’d gotten her out of the house. As far as he was concerned, he was square. He could just walk back in there, find a drink, and forget he ever saw her. He didn’t need this drama when he came for a good night.

His attention returned to her when the wet, gagging sounds finally stopped.

Jonathan looked down as she sat back on her heels. She looked like hell. she black streaks under her eyes and dirt smeared across her knees. She wiped her mouth with the back of a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking.

Jonathan reached into his jacket and pulled out a plastic bottle of water he’d swiped from the kitchen earlier. It was lukewarm, and the label was peeling, but it was all he had.

“You done?” he asked, perhaps more cruel than intended. He didn’t lean down to her level; he just held the bottle out, waiting for her to take it.

She nodded weakly, her fingers trembling as she grabbed the plastic. She took a tiny sip, looking like she was terrified her stomach was gonna flip on her again.

Jonathan watched her, his jaw set so tight it ached. He shifted his weight, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and then pulling them out again, not knowing what to do with himself.

She looked small. Like, real small. In the dim light of the streetlamps, like a toy someone had stepped on and left in the dirt.

He looked back at the house, then back at her. He knew he should just leave. He’d done his part. But the way she was shaking... he knew he couldn’t.

If he went back inside and those guys found her again... or if she choked, or if she just froze...

He let out a long, heavy sigh. Damn it. “Come on,” he said. His voice wasn’t mean this time; it was just tired. He reached down, hooking his hands under her arms to help her up. He was careful not to be too rough, keeping her steady as she wobbled. “Let’s get you off the ground, church girl. You’re gonna catch something out here.”

He led her toward the curb where Ben’s ancient Chevy Impala sat like a dark shadow. The car was old and beat up, but it was solid. He tried the back door, and it clicked open with a heavy metallic sound.

“In you go.”

He helped her slide onto the vinyl bench seat. She didn’t fight him; she just curled into a ball, her head landing on the seat with a soft thud. Before he could even think about closing the door, she was already drifting off, her breathing coming in slow, shallow hitches.

He frowned, not sure what he should do next he turned from her and shut the door as quiet as he could and walked around to the front, climbing into the driver’s seat. The car was freezing, the air smelling like Ben’s cheap air fresheners and cigarettes. He didn’t turn the key; he didn’t want to burn Ben’s gas, but he also didn’t get back out.

“You’re a lot of trouble, church girl,” he muttered to the empty car.

Jonathan popped the cap off a lukewarm beer he’d had stashed in the door pocket. He took a long, heavy swig, the bitter liquid doing nothing to wash the taste of the night out of his mouth.

His eyes kept drifting back to the mirror. He couldn’t help it.

In the dim, orange glow of the streetlamps, he could see her sprawled on the back seat. Her dress had hitched up high on her thighs, showing way more skin than she ever did in the halls at school. Even smelling like puke and alcohol , with black streaks smeared across her face, she was still pretty. It was annoying. For a split second, his mind went somewhere dark.His eyes trailed up her thighs to where he could see a peak of her white panties; she was sexy...

The thought turned his stomach faster than the beer.

The hell wrong with me?He looked away, staring hard at the dark dashboard. He felt like a total piece of trash. He’d just spent the last twenty minutes playing the big-shot protector, and now he was sitting here looking at her like she was a piece of meat? He was no better than those entitled fucks back at the party.

“I need to get my shit together,” he hissed at himself.

He drained the rest of the beer in one go, the bitterness burning the back of his throat, then shoved it under the seat. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cold headrest, forcing himself to focus on the freezing air and the sound of his own jagged breathing.

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Continuation on next page I'm trying to keep chapters shorter :)