Good Guy

Part Nine

Somebody was gonna die today, and it wasn't gonna be him. Most probably, it was gonna be the moron he'd shoved and pinned against the hallway lockers. And if Scotch could have his way, said moron's death would be slow and painful.

He'd been coming down the stairs after the end of his own English Lit elective, and spied Cleo talking to the school sleazeball, not that anybody else knew what Jackson was. Scotch had bristled, not liking how the guy was trying to get into Cleo's good graces. His first instinct had been to steal her from her new acquaintance. 

But Cleo was her own person, and he had no right prying into her affairs or friendships, even though the green-eyed monster inside him insisted that he grab her and run. Instead, Scotch had watched from the end of the hall, all the while thanking his lucky stars that no one else was around to mistake him for some stalking weirdo. He was going to wait their conversation out, then warn Cleo about her new friend once said friend was out of the picture.

Then Cleo had screamed, and all bets were immediately off.

Scotch tightened his grip on Jackson's jacket, making sure the leather wouldn't slip and allow the guy to escape. Although, what he really wanted to do was move his hands to Cavendish's neck and wring the virtue of respect out the bastard's throat. Maybe then he'd gain some semblance of being a man.

"What the fuck?!" Jackson yelled, hands raised high in shock.

"She told you to back off." Scotch jerked the jacket in his hands, slamming Jackson into the lockers again. "So back. Off."

Cleo's voice shook as she spoke up. "Scotch?"

"Are you okay?" he asked, not daring to remove his eyes from the student he'd pinned, lest a punch landed on his face.

"Y-yeah."

Before Scotch could voice his relief, Jackson Cavendish lowered his hands and sneered. "If it isn't my old friend, Scotch Wilkins. Do you still go running often?"

Scotch's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening to the point that both the collar of the gray shirt and jacket dug into Jackson's neck. If the bastard threw one more jibe, even just the slightest hint to clue Cleo in on what kind of running he was talking about, he was going to get it. Cleo herself was the only reason Scotch's fist wasn't pounding into Jackson's face. "Shut up, Cavendish."

Jackson's sneer turned into a scowl. "Take your hands off of me, Wilkins."

"No," Scotch replied, jaw tight. "Not until you swear to keep your hands to yourself."

"I was just trying to talk to the girl."

The sleazeball tried moving away from his assailant, but his lanky frame was no match to Scotch's years of helping out at the vineyard and his additional experience with hauling heavy packages. "It didn't look like you were just trying to talk to her."

"I was trying to get her number," Jackson reasoned in a pathetic and obvious attempt to cover for himself. "So what? It's not like she already has a boyfriend or anything."

"He said something about filling me up," Cleo volunteered the information before the bastard could add anything else to his defense.

That did it for Scotch. He wrenched Jackson from the wall and hauled him away, only to slam him into a nearby vending machine. Jackson coughed as he hit the metal cover and lost his breath. Scotch leaned into Cavendish's face with his own scowl. "Listen well and listen good, Cavendish. I don't care if you're a year ahead of me. I don't care if you're the darling of the school. If Cleo doesn't want you to talk to her, then you don't talk to her," he demanded. "Got that?"