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Micheal Lee Walker.
That was the name of the red sack of meat in front of me. The one whose minutes were limited. Who’s seconds were currently counting down on a mental timer set by Siri. About to detonate at any moment. Game over oxygen stealing sack of shit. No one messed with what was mine and lived.
Nobody.
Especially not her.
Catastrophically stupid move on muscles for brains part. And he was about to see how deep the broken shards inside of me could cut.
My fist cranks back and I shatter what's left of his nose with my punch, blood spattering across my white dress shirt. I’d forgotten to change before coming down here but I couldn't give two shits. Let the onlookers at The Drunk Fish see what happens to those who crossed me. Let them drool in fear and piss themselves at the sight of me. I was young but I was torn and shattered things made for the best warnings.
I reach back, preparing to smack the shit out of the man, only to be halted mid punch, a meaty arm gripping my bicep before tugging me back,
“Boss.” The voice hisses in my ear and I whip around, fists swinging, and nearly punch Tristan in the face.
“What.” I bark, madness leaking out of my eyes. I’d gone too far and he and I both knew it. But I’d be fucked if I crawled back from the edge now. Not before I finish him.
Blondie's eyes appear before mine and I see red. The pain she’d tried so hard to hide from me melted into her ocean irises and I can barely breathe from the fury rushing through my veins. My fists open and close and it takes everything in me not to hit the bastard until his eyes slip from their sockets like jello.
“Let me take over,” Tristan replies calmly, all too aware of my thoughts and where my mood has gone. To an absolute shit town population of one.
We were in the Drunk Fishes basement. Which if I was being honest was a close second to the shit town my mind has rented a room at. The stains and smells in this room alone was enough to make a weaker man fall to his knees. The only people who’d seen this room and lived to catalog the furniture (a gorgeous stainless steel fold-out chair) being Tristan and myself. Blood freaked Jayson the fuck out. That tied with his inability to sit still for more than twenty seconds and we all decided it was for the best if he never saw the inner workings of the cave.
And with where my head was at it was safe to say the dirty little details of this room would remain a secret. Because lion tattoo would have to be high on frosted flakes if he thought he was getting out of here alive.
“Ya why don't you let your little friend take over? You look a bit tired.” The severely suicidal man before me mumbles, blood drooling between his lips with the words.
I step forward, ready to finish the bastard, but am stopped by Tristans hand on my shoulder.
I knew I was letting him get to me too easily. I knew I was letting my colors show like a kindergarten rainbow carpet, but I couldn't help it. I was coming undone and I could feel my control slipping through my hands like ashes. The monster inside me’s hunger is insatiable.
And I was starving.
Tristan, not waiting for me to answer him, steps forward. He was an impenetrable mountain at six foot three inches and the room went utterly silent as he made his way towards blabbermouth. The air so still you could hear a dead man take a breath.
Tristan was a dark cloud, his control revealing nothing, while inside I knew he was screaming his head off. Lighting crashing down on his sanity with enough force to crumble the strongest of souls. He says nothing and the silence is a putty I want to pull just to see how long it could stretch.
Quietly, Tristan rolls up the sleeves on his white henley tee, his thick forearms making an appearance in the dim lighting.
And then his hands dart out, gripping Mikey here by the throat, squeezing so hard I want to touch my own throat just to make sure my lungs are still pumping out air. His tattooed fingers press down on his windpipe and the man doesn't even have time to gasp for air as his entire head turns red from the lack of oxygen to his brain. His eyes pop out of his head and I'm left revealing in the man's pain like the blood-twisted bastard I am. The monster in me roared at the sight, craving more. The darkness inside of me was never satisfied.
Tristan, lost in his own fucked up world of violence, doesn't even glance my way for approval before digging his thumbs into the assaulter’s eyes until he screams bloody murder before tearing his hands away. Micheals left panting in pain and I wish I didn't know the asshat's name. Because that name would haunt me, shred me apart until my very last day.
My fingers twitch. I need my journal and the irony is thick in the air as I realize the reason I need it is also the same one in possession of the leather-bound book.
Tristan turns to me and I nod.
“Finish him.” I don't trust myself right now and I wanted the man to die slowly. Quick was too mercifully for the hands that had tried to cut my pixie's wings. No, he would suffer. That was decided the moment I saw Rose’s face.
Tristan doesn't even bother nodding back in my direction before grabbing hold of the man's hands and twirling his fingers in his hands, making the man squirm at his indecision. Tristan liked to play with his food. It was his cold patience that I liked best in situations like these. How he liked to draw out the pain like he was savoring it, devouring it piece by piece like it was an art to be appreciated and not a dirty deed meant to be shoved under rugs.
Finally, he decides on the thumb and I watch as the finger snaps, the bone breaking in two.
A clean break. Someone's devil’s being awfully quiet on their shoulder tonight.
But I wanted his devil to scream.
“Break them all.” I declare into the hollow space. Those fingers had touched her. Touched her in places I hadn't. And for that, he deserved to dissolve in acetone until his flesh came off.
