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KIERAN
“For the love of God, please tell me you’re not out beating some poor guy’s ass because he made the unfortunate mistake of breathing the same air as your girl.”
“He touched her,” I growl to the phone, watching the squirming body on the ground, face bloody, hands clutching his stomach.
I lower myself to him, and his eyes go wild with fear, mouth parting and chest heaving. He raises his palms as if in surrender. When I extend my hand, he flinches and snaps his eyes shut, like bracing for another hit. I almost laugh. Coward little shit.
With deliberate slowness, I wipe the blood on my knuckles on his expensive-looking polo shirt. Mommy and Daddy probably bought it for him, or maybe he used their credit cards to purchase it. Whatever the case, this shirt’s gonna end up in the trash bin when he gets home. What a waste.
“Not to put too fine a point on it, brother, but she’s not technically yours.” My older brother, Cade, sighs. There’s a shuffling of papers in the background, and I know he’s still in the office. He’s been doing some extra work because I’m not around to do my part. So far, he’s not complaining. Not that he can actually do anything at this point.
“He touched her while she was sitting on a stool and drinking her margarita.”
“Maybe it was accidental.”
“He brushed his fingers along her bare back.”
“Again, maybe it wasn’t intentional.”
“He did it slowly, and she flinched. You still think he doesn’t deserve it?”
“Fine. He had it coming. A verbal warning would have sufficed, but knowing you, he’s gonna need an ice bath for a week.”
“Make that a month.” The tip of my boot connects with the fucker’s shoulder. It’s a gentle tap, but I’ve already done quite a lot of work on him, so he’s pretty extra sensitive. He moans and clutches his shoulder like I just dislocated it.
“Jesus. You’re a psycho. Remind me to never cross you or even breathe the wrong way around your girl who’s technically not yours.”
“Fuck you.”
“Love you too, brother. Just call me if I need to bail you out tonight. Alvin’s out of the country, so the responsibility falls on my lap. Unfortunately.”
I end the call without saying goodbye and slip my phone into my back pocket. Now my full attention is back on the blonde guy who’s probably regretting getting out and hanging at the club tonight. One can only hope.
“Run,” I tell the guy in a voice so low I’m actually surprised he hears it.
He scrambles so fast, as if the devil himself is on his heels. In seconds, he bolts to his car parked a few steps away. The yellow light from the nearby streetlamp casts long, dark shadows as he fumbles with his keys. Even all the way from here, I can see his hands trembling, and he curses when the key doesn’t slide in after a few attempts.
The moment he manages to open the door, he doesn’t look back. He slams it shut and turns the car on. The engine rumbles, and the headlights barely have time to flicker to life before he floors the accelerator.
I stand there in the now-empty back alley, hands shoved inside my pockets, and watch him speed away, his tires screeching against the asphalt, a cloud of dust billowing behind him.
When I lose sight of him, I turn back to the backdoor and open it, resisting the urge to head back out when the pulsating bass hits me full in the face, the music reverberating in my skull.
Ah, fuck this.
The neon-lit interior hurts my eyes, and I feel a pounding at my temples.
Still, my eyes scan the bodies on the dance floor, darting from one face to another, squinting because I can’t see shit. The deafening music grates on my nerves, and it’s all I can do not to head to the DJ’s booth and punch his face.
Who the hell enjoys listening to this crap? It should be a crime to call it music. It’s nothing but noise. Annoying, headache-inducing noise.
Finally, I spot her—long brown hair in a high ponytail. She’s raising her hands in the air, dancing with no one in particular, moving her body from left to right.
Sighing in relief, I push through the crowd just to be closer to her and make sure no one ‘accidentally’ touches her again.
Katherine Astor.
