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We physically collided, my friend a huge-ass motherfucker, but I caught him by surprise. He hadn’t expected to see me standing there, and because of that, I held the upper hand.
He was the one to stumble back, his head darting up, and the dude puffed the fuck up. He had his fists raised like he was going to hit something, hit me. One of my best friends was jumpy today, and that was obvious.
“Dorian.” Slowly those fists lowered, his face red, body still charged to hell. He was breathing like he’d run a mile and his driving held consistent to that. He pocketed his hands. “Hey, what’s—”
I shoved around him, his hand coming to my arm. He physically tugged me, and I shoved enough force into him to send him across the hallway.
Again, my friend was frazzled. He held size over me and a technique on the field that shouldn’t have thrown his footing for shit. Thatcher Reed was panicked for some reason.
And I was starting to see why.
I didn’t want to see it, think it. But when I charged toward that door again, he got in my way.
“Dorian, no.” He had his movements together this time, a quick hand on my chest and his body in front of mine. “Wait. Just—”
“I saw you, fucker.” I threw his hands off me, then darted a finger at him. “I was on my way to her house and saw you leaving.”
His eyes flashed, his hands high.
“I stayed on your ass,” I said, getting closer. “I saw you come here, and I saw you drop a fucking paintbrush.”
His hands remained steady in front of me, like he was dealing with an animal instead of his friend.
He wasn’t far off.
Thatcher wet his lips, but he wasn’t speaking fast enough. “Let’s talk downstairs.”
He had to be joking, right? I closed distance, and he put hands on me again.
He got my arms. “Please. Just let’s talk first.”
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
“I will, buddy. But I need to talk to you first.” He faced the door behind him, his expression tight when he came back. “You just gotta understand something first, okay?”
There was nothing okay about this. In fact, this appeared to be the deepest betrayal I think I’d ever felt. It came from him, my brother and one of my best friends.
My head shook, slow. “You need to get out of my way, Thatcher.” I was giving him one more chance, one more before I broke each and every one of his fucking limbs.
Friendship be damned.
He was damning our friendship right now, and I couldn’t even describe what he was doing to his friendship with Wolf. This was betrayal in its purest form if he had going on what I thought he had going on behind him.
Behind that door.
He’d had a paintbrush. He had been at her house, and when he’d gone in that room, he’d come out with none of it. My friend wasn’t a fucking painter.
Let alone painting with what was most definitely her stuff.
Thatcher raised another hand to me, and this time, I got him by it. Working him around, I slammed his fucking body against the wall until his face touched it. Framed art fell and crashed at our feet, glass exploding as I pressed Thatcher’s face into wallpaper. He didn’t plead or call out despite how close I was to forcing his joint out of the socket.
“Dorian—”
“Shut the fuck up.” We weren’t talking. There were no words he could say, and I was so close to breaking my friend’s arm.
I would have had the door not opened.
The sight of another surprised me enough not to damage my buddy’s throwing arm, but it wasn’t the someone I expected to see. Bare feet hit old oak floors, and when Bruno Sloane pulled me off my asshole of a friend, I couldn’t have been more surprised.
