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His body heats to boiling as he suffocates. He struggles against me, putting friction on my crotch with his stupid bubble butt that I don’t fucking appreciate. I release him suddenly and hurl him to the side. He collapses on the marble floor, rubbing his neck and groaning. “That all you got?” he breathes.
“Is that an invitation?” I ask, loosening my tie and flexing my fists. It’s a good day to beat the shit out of this spoiled little punk.
I’m done for in this city anyway. Why not go out with a bang? In a way, I feel like this has been inevitable. He’s had it coming. What have I got to lose?
The Heir pushes to his feet and turns to look at me again. “Yeah, Jack. It’s a fucking invitation.”
Reason rears its ugly head. “You’re not worth it.”
He snorts. “Okay, doorman.”
I lurch but stop myself.
He does what he does best—taunts.
“You can’t hurt me. You’re no one. Let me guess. You wanted to be an actor, right? Thought you were pretty enough to make it on Broadway? Or what? General Hospital?” He sneers. “Where are you from, Jack? Cleveland’s my guess. Someplace dirty.”
I stare hard at him, leashing my temper. Doing everything in my power to remind myself I do have something to lose.
“When did you give up?” he goes on in a tone filled with so much derision, it’s a wonder he can even bear having my feet on his floors. “When did you realize you were a has-been that never even was?”
With those words, he disembowels me. This time, I don’t just snap—I break in two. Part of me is standing there, still taking his condescending abuse, but the other part of me slaps him once, twice, advances on him until he’s on the ground, skidding across his floor. I grab him by the throat and slam his head into the marble tile. I hover over him and spit in his face, staining his flawless skin. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Do it,” he chokes out.
His face gets redder and redder. He flops beneath me. I kneel to slide my knee between his thighs, holding him firmly in place, and he grunts, his legs locking around my hips to try and gain leverage.
His lips go purple. Even if I wanted to loosen my hand, I can’t. I won’t. His pelvis bucks up, and his very stiff erection bumps my crotch.
That’s what shocks me loose from him.
I back away, getting to my feet. “Fucking pervert.”
He sucks in air, flipping to his stomach, slender fingers splayed on the floor while he tries to catch his breath. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself in his pants, the same pin-striped ones he left the building in last night. “Fuck,” he groans, his cheek pressed to the tile.
I need to get the fuck out of here. He’s nuts. High and crazy and too rich to know how to behave in front of a stranger—too entitled to realize not everyone wants to know his every move or indulge in his whims.
But as I’m turning for the door, I feel something I don’t want to acknowledge as he groans again, louder and longer than the first time, followed by the distinct sound of skin slapping skin. He’s jacking off, and knowing that makes my own cock twitch, blood rushing to the base and filling the shaft. By the time I get to the service elevator, I’m hard.
It takes me a while to fall asleep, my adrenaline not dissipating until after my second double shot of rye. I’m not a fighter. I, in fact, sucked at high school wrestling. Once, I tried to break up a fight on the subway, and ended up getting clocked in the jaw, but I’ve never thrown a punch, much less tried to choke the life out of someone.
But for someone who’s about to get fired from a job that’s nearly impossible to get—I feel pretty fucking great.
The only thing I want to be able to do but can’t, is tell someone about it.
I would have probably told Silas about it—if it had only been the choking. Who among us plebeians wouldn’t want to choke out a few of the smug little shits in our buildings? But because of—you know—the rest of it—I get a weird feeling in my chest thinking about it. And yet, I find myself reliving every second over and over with all the satisfaction of someone who just wrecked someone who needed to learn a goddamn lesson.
That should teach him not to fuck with me.
I was running on pure adrenaline at the time, and therefore expected a crash, but I actually have peace about the whole disgusting incident. Maybe I’ve needed to beat the shit out of someone for a long time now. Maybe bottling up all my difficult emotions is as unhealthy as it feels. Letting them out, however—that had felt good.
If I had any money, I’d join a boxing gym.
But I don’t.
After today, I probably won’t even have a job. Nevertheless, when I finally do drift off to sleep, something deep inside me is satisfied, like a beast who finally got fed a decent meal.
6
