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I don’t get to hear her response, because Xeno is intent on humiliating me as he manhandles me onto the dance floor. Right now it’s clear that he doesn’t give a shit about the show he’s putting on. He certainly doesn’t give a shit that I’m going to be left with a bruise from the tight grasp of his fingers, triggering me in the worst possible way.
Motherfucker.
Hate blooms, darkening that deep-seated love, making it murky and unclear. This isn’t the boy I loved. This man before me is a stranger. I need to remember that. When we reach the centre of the dance floor, I yank my arm free, then turn on Xeno and punch him as hard as I can on the arm. I would’ve punched his face if he wasn’t so damn tall and my reach wasn’t so fucking short. The crowd sucks in a collective breath, but I’m too mad to worry about the consequences or the throbbing of my hand. Little Dynamite makes some more ‘braaaap, braaap’ sounds over the mic, shaping his fingers into guns indicating that this is a battle both on and off the dance floor. Dick.
“That was a mistake, Tiny,” Xeno growls, leaning over me.
“Get fucked, Xeno.”
His eyes flash with rage, but I know him and he’d never, ever, hit a woman. Yet, when his eyes darken and that grass-green I used to adore so much deepens to an almost black, I realise that I no longer know him at all. Maybe I never did.
“The only person getting fucked is you, Pen,” he snarls, before wrapping his tattooed hand around the back of my head and yanking me against his body. Before I can even try to fight him off, his hot, angry mouth is pressed against mine in a kiss that simultaneously obliterates all my defences and riles me up like nothing else. The kiss is savage, brutal and when his tongue pierces my lips and swoops in like he owns me, I have to shove down all the righteous emotions he conjures so nobody sees just how affected I am by his words and his actions. With an angry hand clutching the back of my head and our bodies thrust together, Xeno steals a kiss I wasn’t prepared to give him.
Hard.
Taut.
Vicious.
He ravages my mouth, bruises my lips, batters my defences. He doesn’t sootheme. He doesn’t healus. He doesn’t answer any of the questions I’ve harboured for the last three fucking years. This kiss maims. This kiss tears, shreds, and stings. This kisshurts.
And the worse thing of all, this kiss is ourfirst.
Letting me go with a shove, Xeno leaves me panting as he stalks off the dance floor without a backward glance. Anger and betrayal rips at my skin, threatening to shred me to pieces.
I want to scream. I want to fucking rip out my hair. I want to pummel my fists against his retreating back, but worse than all of that, I want him to kiss me again.
Instead, I force myself to be still, to stop shaking. I force myself to internalise every last emotion, shutting them down one by one and forming a thicker, more impenetrable defence.
“Well, well, well. Looks like there’s trouble in paradise,” Little Dynamite taunts.
I catch his eye and sneer. He knows just as well as I do that the Breakers and I haven’t been friends for three fucking years, that it’s an impossibility. Little Dynamite is just some prick who’ll be nice one minute and a wanker the next. He loves the drama, gives him and the rest of the revellers at Rocks something to gossip about. If I wasn’t forced to work here, I would’ve left a long time ago.
“Just fucking get on with it!” I shout out over the cawing of the crowd.
There’s no backing out now. If I want to keep my pride in place and my reputation intact, I have to battle. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t give a shit, but the Breakers know exactly which buttons to push. What they fail to realise is I’m not the same girl I was three years ago. This woman fights her own damn battles. I learnt the hard way that you can’t rely on anyone but yourself. The Breakers were the last ones to break my heart.
Never again.
Jerking my chin and folding my arms, I wait for my opponent. Little Dynamite holds his hands up to silence the crowd who look like they’re about to witness a dirty brawl in an underground fight club and not a battle on a dance floor. Though, to be fair, both can be just as dangerous, especially when you’re battling against a member of a gang and not just someone from a dance crew like I am tonight.
“Hurry the fuck up,” I add, glaring at the MC.
“Feisty, Pen. I like it,” Little Dynamite retorts, winking.
I flip him the finger.
It’s not hard to see whose side he’s on tonight. Raising his arm, he indicates for the music to be turned up. The bass vibrates up through the floor asInDa Clubby 50 Cent pounds out through the speakers. A song that has so many layers of meaning for me and the Breakers. I close my eyes and let the music fill me up, long buried memories forcing themselves to the forefront of my mind.
