My first two punches were, somehow, a total surprise to him. His head snapped back, as he stood there, baffled at how the predator had become the prey in the space of two heartbeats.

Fight me, ass**le. Go ahead. Fucking fight me.

He swung a fist, finally, but missed my head by a good foot, losing his balance as a result. I hit him twice more, my arms warming up from the adrenalin pounding through my bloodstream. A streak of moonlight lit the scene black and white for a split second. Blood gushed from his nose, dark and gratifyingly abundant. Bleed, ass**le.

He wiped at his mouth with his forearm, staring at the result. With a short roar, he ducked his head and bolted forward.

Uppercut with the right, just under his chin. Elbow to the head with the left. Open-mouthed, he crashed against the truck, bouncing off – the alcohol making him too stupid to fall down or run. He flailed towards me and I grabbed his shoulders and provided a skull-jarring knee to the jaw.

He was lucky. I could have crushed his windpipe instead. He went down, arms flung over his head, knees pulling to his chest.

Get up. Get up. Get up. I started to lean down to jerk him back up and hit him again, but a soft sound broke through the haze of rage.

I glanced up and peered straight into the truck, where Jackie cowered against the far side door, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths.

She was a terrified, feral thing, recoiling from him. From me, perhaps. I knew it wasn’t possible to feel the pace of her heartbeat, to smell her panic, but I swear I did both. My fists were covered in her attacker’s blood. I wiped the back of my hands on my jeans, slowly, stepping carefully to the door – no sudden movements.

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move a muscle otherwise.

‘You okay?’ These were the first words I ever uttered to this girl I’d watched and sketched and lusted after and dreamed about. She didn’t answer or nod. Shock – she was going into shock.

Very slowly, I drew my phone from my pocket. ‘I’m going to call nine-one-one.’ Still no response. Before dialling, I asked if she needed medical assistance or just the police. I didn’t know what he’d done to her in the seconds it took me to cross the lot. His jeans were still up, though unzipped – but he had hands. Another red haze threatened to descend. I wanted him dead, not just whining and bleeding at my feet.

‘Don’t call,’ she said. Her voice was so soft and small that I could barely hear the words.

I thought she didn’t want an ambulance. But no, she clarified that she didn’t want me to call the police.

Incredulous, I asked, ‘Am I wrong, or did this guy just try to rape you, and you’re telling me not to call the police?’ She flinched, and I wanted to pull her out of that truck and shake her. ‘Or did I interrupt something I shouldn’t have?’

Damn my temper. Damn it to hell. WHY did I say that?

Her eyes glassed with tears, and I wanted to punch myself in the mouth. I forced my breathing to slow. I had to calm down. For her. For her.

Shaking her head, she told me she just wanted to go home. My brain ticked off a hundred reasons why I should argue with her, but I’d been on campus long enough to know how it would go. The frat would close ranks around him. Someone would swear she went willingly. She was a woman scorned, trying to hurt her ex’s frat. She was a liar, a tease, a slut. Administration wouldn’t want it to leave campus. He hadn’t succeeded, so it would be he-said-she-said. Slap on the wrist for him. Social exile for her.

I would testify … but I had a juvenile record for assault, and I’d just beat the shit out of the guy on the ground. A smart attorney would have me arrested for assaulting him, discrediting anything I might contribute.

The piece of shit on the ground turned over and cussed, and I rolled my shoulders and took slow breaths – in, out, in, out – attempting to convince myself not to stomp his head under the heel of my very solid boot. He’d not bled enough to satisfy the monster inside me.

It was a close thing.

She breathed along with me, and I concentrated on her soft breaths. She was trembling, but she wasn’t crying, yet. If she started, I didn’t know what I would do.

‘Fine. I’ll drive you,’ I said.

Without a beat between my words and hers, she said that no, she’d drive herself.

How many shocks could I handle in one night? It appeared that I was about to find out.

Like I was going to let her drive. Right. I reached down and picked her keys out of the items strewn across the floorboard. Her bag was on its side – knocked there, no doubt, when that shithead shoved her face down into her truck.

Holy. SHIT. I’ve never wanted someone to jump up and throw a punch at me so badly. I wanted an excuse – any sort of excuse – to end him.

Scooting closer, she held her hand out for her keys. I stared at her slim fingers. The fingers I’d watched from a distance for weeks. They trembled.

‘I can’t let you drive,’ I said.

These words confused her. I rattled off my justifications: the visible fact that she was shaking – reason enough on its own. I wasn’t sure if she was uninjured. And I assumed she’d probably been drinking, though I hadn’t actually observed a cup or bottle in her hand.

‘I have not,’ she said, her brows furrowing and her tone indignant. ‘I’m the designated driver.’

I shouldn’t have looked over my shoulder and back, asking her who, exactly, she was designated for. I shouldn’t have berated her for walking across the parking lot alone, paying no attention to her surroundings – even though these things were true. I definitely shouldn’t have implied that she’d acted irresponsibly, which was the same as telling her she was responsible for the attack.